


Devil In The Details

by indiefic



Series: Devil In The Details [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiefic/pseuds/indiefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumplestiltskin isn’t heeding Sir Maurice’s calls for help, so Belle takes it upon herself to defend the village from the ogres.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Specificity

**Author's Note:**

> Set directly prior to the events of Skin Deep in the Enchanted Forest. Complete AU.
> 
> Inspired in no small part by Disney’s _Beauty and the Beast_ and Robin McKinley’s  Beauty.
> 
> As far as I know in the show, Belle’s age hasn’t been established (not sure about promo materials), so I’m using Emilie De Ravin’s approximate age when she filmed Skin Deep. This means that Belle isn’t 20ish, she’s 30ish.
> 
> Ratings vary from chapter to chapter, but overall the rating will be explicit.
> 
> This was supposed to be a one shot, but it's sort of taken on a life of its own. I'm not sure how many chapters it will be in total.

“Father says he’s not coming,” Belle says hollowly, staring out the window. Everything in her sight - everything she has ever known and loved - is in jeopardy tonight. The ogres are quickly converging on their little village, destroying everything in their path. The castle walls, strong though they are, will not keep them out.

Verna shrugs helplessly. “Nothin’ good ever come o’ wishin’ for a visit from the Dark One. That’s what my grandmother used to say.”

Belle frowns, fear getting the best of her. “Yes, well, I doubt that your grandmother was ever facing the decimation of her entire village by ogres.”

Verna looks sheepish. “True enough.”

“I must take matters into my own hands,” Belle says, more to herself than to Verna. She turns, reaching for her cloak.

Verna immediately drops the old linens she was cutting into bandages. “Oh Miss Belle,” she says, frantic. “You can’t be considering what that witch said.”

“Edda’s not a witch,” Belle says absently. “She’s a seer.” Belle heads for the door and Verna tries to block her way.

“No, Miss, you can’t. Please,” Verna pleads. “Your father’ll have my head if you go. I can’t allow it.”

Belle’s expression is stern. “I’ll be dead if I don’t go. We all will be dead. Tell no one where I’ve gone. Do you hear me? No one.”

Verna is clearly terrified, but Belle is reasonably certain the dizzy girl won’t go running to her father the second that she leaves. She points a finger at her for good measure and then turns and head for the door, steeling her nerve.

***

Belle is shaking so violently that embers from the torch scatter everywhere. She can hear the ogres approach, feel the ground shake beneath their bulk. Their roars pierce the air and it takes every bit of courage she has not to turn and run.

She won’t run. She can’t. She is her village’s last, best hope. Edda spoke words of truth. Belle may not have magic, but there is magic inherent in deeds, in sacrifice. The magic in her sacrifice may well be enough to spare her village and her loved ones. And if this deed can spare any at all, it is well worth the price.

The ogres are nearly upon her now, dozens of them. In the dim light of the torch, she can see their gruesome forms, their sightless eyes. One bounds toward her, stopping several meters away, sniffing loudly. It drops down, bracing its weight on its knuckles as it leans toward her and bellows. The foul stench of its breath blows her hair back from her face. Now she is too terrified to run, despite every fiber in her being telling her to do just that.

The ogre takes a step toward her, then another. It reaches out and she knows she’s going to feel the repulsive press of its gruesome flesh against her own. She prays that this will be enough to save those she loves.

But the ogre doesn’t touch her. 

It stops. 

And then slowly, it backs away, head bowed.

As she watches, the other ogres back away too. Blind though they are, she can tell that their attention is fixed on something just over her right shoulder and a dread like none she has ever known creeps up her spine.

Gathering all her nerve, she spins around.

“Good evening.”

She screams, unable to stop herself. Quickly, she clamps her hand over her mouth, staring at him, dropping the torch in her fright. The torch lands unceremoniously on the damp ground, quickly sputtering to nothing. But the moon is high and full and she can clearly make out his odd features, the unnatural glint of his skin, the too large irises, the long, black claws. He is dressed from head to toe in leathers, dragonskin from the look of the coat, all rough scales and fright with some type of scarf that looks like spines.

He studies her, his expression wary and slightly put-upon. She has the distinct impression he’s trying not to sigh, as if he finds stumbling across her in an ogre filled field far from the castle walls to be a tiresome affair. “Good evening,” he says again, this time punctuating it with a tight, mirthless smile. Even in the dim light, she can see the jagged, stained teeth as he speaks.

“You - You - You’re him,” she says, finally finding her voice. “You’re the Dark One. You’re Rumplestiltskin.”

“So I am,” he says, bowing deeply. His voice is strangely melodic, unnerving. He straightens. “And you are the Lady Belle.”

She frowns at him. “How do you know me?”

“Oh, trust me,” he says with a wicked, knowing smile and a high, piercing giggle. “I know a great many things. Like the fact that you are out here to sacrifice yourself to those ogres in hopes of sparing your little village.” His nose wrinkles in distaste. “You must be very innocent,” he says, making it sound like an impediment rather than a virtue. “If you had any idea what a pack of ogres could do to a willing young virgin, you wouldn’t be so cavalier with your gifts.”

“I .. uh,” she falls silent, staring at him. “How did you know why I’m out here?”

“Magic, dearie,” he explains, waving his hands. “Your deed, your intention constitute a binding magical contract.” He looks her up and down. “In this case, it’s a good thing that you didn’t know enough to be specific.”

Her head is swimming with the surreality of this conversation. She’s standing in a field in the middle of the night calmly speaking with Rumplestiltskin, the most feared man in the world. Or most feared demon in the world? Or was it imp? She can’t remember. “Specific?”

He nods. “Devil’s in the details, dearie. It usually pays to be specific with magic. Though not for you. Not tonight. I’m generally not considered a prize, but compared to a pack of ogres, even I look like prince charming.”

“You?” she says, staring at him in confusion. She glances over her shoulder and can no longer see the ogres at all. “I don’t understand.”

He purses his lips together. “Clearly.”

Seeing that he’s not going to elaborate, Belle steps closer. “Edda, the Seer, she told me that if I was to sacrifice myself to the ogres, that the magic might be enough to spare my village.”

He leans in toward her, his tone conspiratorial as he says, “Just so you know, Edda’s a hack. Wouldn’t know a deal if it bit her in that wrinkly old ass.”

Belle’s cheeks flame at his coarse language and she feels offended on Edda’s behalf.

He sighs as if the strain of having to explain things to someone as slow and ignorant as she is unnecessarily taxing him. “There is certainly magic in sacrifice,” he explains clearly. “And the … _purer_ … that sacrifice, the more potent the magic. Now a willing, virgin sacrifice … ho ho,” he claps his hands together lightly. “There is some potent magic in that.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes at him, irritation momentarily squelching her terror. “Enough magic to drive away the ogres?”

“Hmm?” he looks at her, confused, and then glances in the direction the ogres retreated. “Oh, gods no, girl. Pack of ogres that big would take convents full of virgins. Probably be more efficient to just stack the virgins up into a barricade and hope for the best.” He grins at her, clearly amused by his own joke. 

“No,” he says again. “This is what I meant about being specific with magical contracts. The agreement you negotiated - to any taker, incidentally - didn’t stipulate that your sacrifice would drive the ogres away. Your contract stipulated that your … _innocence_ … would be sacrificed to whomever would faithfully attempt to drive the ogres away. And payment isn’t contingent on success.”

She shakes her head, trying to clear it. How can this possibly be this complicated? Edda gave her no indication there were so many loopholes and nuances to magic. “So if you hadn’t scared off those ogres?” she prompts him.

“Oh, the dumb animal that was approaching you probably would have fucked you within an inch of your life and then fought to the death with the rest of the pack, thereby fulfilling the requirements of the contract. Eventually the others would have tired of infighting, probably eaten you and sacked your village.”

Belle gapes at him, not sure if she is more offended by his language, his assessment of the situation or her own naivete. Is that really what would have happened? Gods, that would have been a disaster - and a complete waste.

Then she has a chilling thought and her mouth snaps shut.

“ _Exactly_ ,” he says with a malicious grin and a wink. “The ogres didn’t take you up on your offer. _I did_.”

He gives her a moment for that reality to sink in. She feels her knees go weak as her breath leaves her in a panic.

She’s not sure if she’s going to vomit or pass out.

When he speaks again, his tone is deadly serious. “Lucky for you I won’t merely make a doomed attempt to save your little village. It will have all the benefits of my protection, the Dark One’s protection. The ogres dare not bother your lands again.”

With that assurance, life seems to pour back into Belle’s body and she can breathe. “They’ll be safe?” she demands. “My family, my friends?”

“It is my promise to you,” he says solemnly.

She shakes her head, struggling for mental clarity, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “So why didn’t you just respond to my father’s request?” she demands. “And spared us all these … theatrics?”

“ _Theatrics_?” he says incredulously, hands over his heart in feigned shock. “My dear, a willing virgin sacrifice is certainly _not_ theatrics. Do you have any idea how rare this is?” His lips purse together with censure. “Especially with young people these days. No morals at all. No respect for the blood of innocence.”

She stares at him, dumbfounded. The Dark One is lecturing her on the lacking morality of today’s youth.

“And you,” he says, gesturing to her. “Not exactly a flower in first bloom and with a strapping young fiance to boot. Who would have even thought it possible that you could still retained the goods to barter a deal like this?”

She gasps in outrage. “Did you just call me an _old harlot_?”

“Well, clearly not a _harlot_ ,” he qualifies, his tone somewhat placating. “But it does make me wonder about the fiance of yours. What’s wrong with him?”

Belle sputters, but oddly, can’t think of a single thing to say to defend Gaston.

“Hmm. Perhaps he prefers the male camaraderie of battle and the hunt,” he says and there is a knowing edge to his words that make Belle think he intends something far more wicked than camaraderie.

“He,” Belle sputters. “I … We don’t - “

“Exactly, dearie,” Rumplestiltskin says, tapping the end of his nose with one blackened claw. “You and your fiance … _don’t_.” He smiles smugly. “Which is why I’m here.” He giggles madly and it makes Belle’s skin crawl.

She shakes her head, steadfastly refusing to contemplate the terms he’s discussing. “Back to my point,” she says. “Why didn’t you just arrive when my father summoned you?”

He frowns. “First off, I am not summoned anywhere. Secondly, your father offered me gold. I make gold. I certainly don’t need charity from your paltry coffers.” He looks her up and down speculatively. “But your offer now, that was infinitely more tempting. Like I said, potent magic, especially to connoisseur such as myself. Few are in a position to truly appreciate such a rare bounty.”

Belle swallows harshly. “And you promise that you will protect my village.”

He nods slowly. “Indeed, I already promised that I will. The deal has been struck.”

“Fine,” she says blandly, oddly resigned to her fate. She crosses her arms over her chest, staring at him. “Fine. Then by all means, let’s be done with it.”

He shakes his head, tsking. “So young.”

“As you have so cleverly deduced, my fiance and I do not suit,” she says bluntly, tired of being spoken to as if she is a slow child. “I find no pleasure in his clumsy, aggressive embraces despite his pleasing face. I have no reason to think that I would find physical congress with you any more repulsive than I would find them with some overgrown, excitable boy who in a year of courting has never bothered to ask me a single question about myself. His only concern is my father’s fortune and siring as many sons upon me as quickly as he can.” She takes a deep breath, allowing him to digest her words. “And if there is truly any luck to be found in this deal for me, Gaston won’t want me when you’re finished, which suits me just fine.”

Now it is he who is dumbstruck. He starts to speak and then stops. He presses his eyes closed for a moment and then slowly opens them. “You would … _welcome_ the possibility of being ruined by the Dark One?”

She considers his question for a moment and then nods. “When my only other option is to serve as a broodmare and coin purse for a barely literate oaf of a husband, yes.”

He shakes his head, staring at her in wonder and confusion. “You are a very odd girl.”

“So I am often informed,” she says, smoothing down the front of her skirt, trying not to let that particular barb find a home. She should be inured to it by now, but often discovers she is not.

He steps closer, seeming for the first time to really study his prize. Unable to stop himself, he reaches out and catches a lock of her hair between his fingers, rubbing gently. “You are surprisingly lovely,” he says, watching her from beneath hooded eyes.

She rolls her eyes, pointedly looking away from him, stepping back far enough that it pulls her hair from his grasp. “Yes, I know. Especially for a virgin of my advanced age,” she says sourly. “However, I’m bookish. And I have known too much freedom to sit idly by while men decide my fate without my input. Usually those two traits are more than sufficient enticement for most men to dismiss my loveliness.”

His smile is one she cannot read. But then he takes a deep breath and sighs, his demeanor becoming oddly melancholy. “It is a specific tragedy to not have the freedom to choose one’s own fate.”

She meets his gaze, surprised to find that he is not mocking her. “Indeed,” she replies. She looks at him and then at the ground, feeling her anger fade, only to be replaced by unease. “Now to the task at hand,” she says with far more confidence than she feels. “I suppose our contract must be executed.”

He smiles at her. “So eager, are you?”

“Not eager for the deed, sir,” she replies firmly. “Eager to be done with this chapter of my life and to start the next as a ruined spinster. From where I stand, it sounds positively lovely.”

He smiles again, but there is mischief in it. “I don’t think so,” he says quietly. 

At that dismissal, her eyes go wide with shock. He doesn’t want to consummate the deal?

“Not tonight,” he explains with a coy smile.

She opens her mouth to protest, then realizing what it is she’s protesting, thinks better of it and closes her mouth.

“There is nothing in the contract that specifies a time frame, my lady,” he says with a mocking bow. “And I think it might do us both some good to delay. Anticipation can add such … flavor … to a deal.”

“I don’t want to wait,” she says, shocking herself with her outburst. She considers the words she just spoke and finds them to be true. She has no desire to draw this out any longer than absolutely necessary. She does not want the dread of this deed hanging over her head.

“Yes, dearie, I know,” he says, contemplating her carefully. “You may be an odd girl, but you do seem surprisingly bright. I’m sure next time, you won’t be so careless as to make a deal you don’t understand.”

She sputters. “But - But - But … when?”

“Soon,” he says. “Never fear. I won’t leave a deal half done. I always honor my contracts.”

And with that, he is gone and Belle finds herself standing alone in a dark clearing miles from home.

***  
END CHAPTER 1


	2. Chapter 2

Belle's trek home is lengthy and along the way, the full moon is blighted by dark clouds. By the time she reaches the castle wall, a fine mist has soaked her to the bone and her triumphant mood is well and truly ruined. The gate opens quickly at her approach. This isn’t necessarily a good sign. They were expecting her, which means the guards know she was out. But try as she might, Belle can’t muster any more dread tonight. She’s just glad she doesn’t have to sneak back in the way she snuck out.

Her father meets her as she steps into the courtyard, grabbing her firmly by the arms. “Belle, what did you do, child?” he demands, shaking her.

She looks into her father’s eyes. How could he know? Behind him is Gaston, clearly fuming as well. “What do you mean?” she asks, feigning ignorance.

“The Dark One, girl,” her father says in a hush. “How could you make a deal with him?”

Carefully she extricates herself from her father’s grip. Seeming to realize what he’s doing, Sir Maurice abruptly releases her and she takes a step back. Belle rubs her upper arm as she contemplates her father. “I saved our village,” she says quietly, but firmly. “The ogres will not blight our lands again.”

“At what price?” her father yells, clearly sick with worry. “The demon appeared not an hour ago. I thought he was here to deal with me, but he informed me that he already struck a deal with you.”

Belle nods silently, wondering exactly how specific Rumplestiltskin was with her father about the terms of their deal. “Does it matter?” she says, sidestepping his question. “I spared our village. I protected our lands. I saved hundreds of lives. Any price I could pay would be worth that.”

Her father’s lips tighten into a thin line and she can tell he’s conflicted. He’s in anguish over her deal and filled with pride for her sacrifice. She did what he was unable to do and it makes him proud even as it shames him.

Gaston pushes forward, stepping even with her father, demanding she take notice of him by sheer force of his physical bulk. “The imp says you are to be his,” Gaston says tightly. “He says that our betrothal is void.”

Belle’s gaze drops to the worn cobblestones of the courtyard. That wasn’t precisely part of the deal, but if that’s what Rumplestiltskin told Gaston, she’s in no mood to contradict him. “Yes,” she says. She looks up, meeting his gaze. “Part of the deal.”

Gaston is enraged, his mouth working though no sound comes out as his brain churns to catch up to his emotions. “You’ll be the imp’s whore!” he bellows.

Belle watches him mutely. In the past, she tried in her own quiet way to calm Gaston’s rage, to appease his easily bruised ego. What else could she do when she knew she would be saddled with him for the rest of her natural life? But now … now a future free from Gaston dawns on her horizon and she is no mood to coddle him. 

“That was indeed the price of the deal,” she says. Again, it isn’t precisely true. She doesn’t believe that Rumplestiltskin taking her maidenhead makes her his whore - that sounds like a lengthier arrangement than was negotiated.

“You had no right!” Gaston bellows again. “No right. You don’t have the authority to break our engagement. You are _my_ betrothed.”

Looking at Gaston’s handsome face contorted in rage, Belle realizes she’s tired, exhausted even. For the last year - the entirety of their engagement - she has expended so much effort in not seeing this side of Gaston. Belle knows that she means absolutely nothing to him. She is a thing, a prize. Gaston is behaving like a child who has had his favored toy taken away.

She takes a deep breath and thinks back to her confrontation with Rumplestiltskin, to the dragonskin coat, the blackened claws and the frightening teeth, his mad giggle. She looks up at Gaston. “I have informed you of the terms of my agreement with Rumplestiltskin,” she says quietly. “I caution you to abide by it. If you think of challenging his deal, you do so at your own peril. And please remember, he saved my lands from marauding ogres with nothing more than his presence in a moonlit field.” 

She can see the fear in Gaston’s eyes at her words and a dark part of her heart thrills at it. She may well be terrified of Rumplestiltskin, but so is everyone else. And she sees now how that can be to her benefit.

“Belle,” her father says softly. “How could you agree to such a thing with that … _beast_?”

She takes a deep breath and grasps his hands in her own. “Easy, Papa,” she says. “To save the lives of those I love. Now let’s get in out of the rain.”

***

It doesn’t take long for word to spread through the village of her arrangement with Rumplestiltskin. And despite the fact that her sacrifice was all for their benefit, Belle finds it impossible to leave her room without becoming the subject of intense scrutiny from the villagers. 

It is unnerving. She hates it. 

Generally, Belle loves nothing more than to fade into the background. But now, everyone is staring at her and she knows they’re all thinking about Rumplestiltskin taking her virginity - the specifics of when and how. It sickens her to be the subject of such conjecture.

A day passes and then another and there is no sign of Rumplestiltskin, no word from him. Her terror mellows to unease and then bubbles into anger. Was this his plan? Did he mean to humiliate her as well as ruin her? He’s off wreaking gods know what mischief, all the while leaving her here to be the subject of lewd speculation, with nothing to occupy her time except the dread of his return.

She is seated in front of the fire in her room, mentally cursing him when Verna enters. Verna has been avoiding Belle and Belle knows it is because the young woman feels guilty for Belle’s current predicament. As if Verna had anything to do with it - or as if she could have stopped Belle once she made up her mind.

“What is it?” Belle snaps, far sharper than she intended. Her nerves are worn thin.

“This just came for you, Miss,” Verna says, holding up a large wicker basket. The top is covered with a delicately embroidered cloth, leaving no clue as to what lies beneath. Verna seems nervous and Belle is concerned she’s going to drop the basket. 

“Miss, the basket just appeared in the great hall. They say it’s from _him_.” The last word is uttered in a whisper. Many people hesitate to speak Rumplestiltskin’s name aloud, but Verna is apparently terrified to refer to him in any respect.

“Just leave it,” Belle says, more gently this time. She waits until Verna has retreated before she ventures closer to the basket. There is a piece of parchment paper folded and tucked between the basket and its contents. Carefully, she unfolds it.

The script is neat, precise and she realizes that she would expect nothing else from Rumplestiltskin. The letter is short. It reads:

_My Lady Belle,_

_To pass the time until we meet again. I will call upon you in three days. Until then._

_-R_

She stares at the parchment, more curious than anything else. She studies the curve of the letter R. His signature. There is power in names. She knows this as well as anyone does. And of all the names that hold power, his is surely one of the most powerful. She wonders why he doesn’t sign his entire name? Is it a protection for him? Could someone do something to him if they had his name written by his own hand? This is certainly a curiosity.

Slowly, she turns her attention to the basket. It is large, the size one would use for gathering firewood or the like. She tests the handle. It’s heavy as well. She stares at the cloth wondering what exactly Rumplestiltskin would give her to occupy her time. The Dark One is not known for his generosity or his thoughtfulness. Is it something wicked? Something to mock and frighten her until his return?

Any of these possibilities could be true, but the fact is that she’s been shut in her room for the last two days and she’s bored out of her mind. Throwing caution to the wind, she picks up the basket and carries it to her bed. She curls up on the bed, legs tucked under her body as she carefully pulls back the cloth, bracing herself for whatever it might contain.

The basket holds … _books_.

Lots and lots of books.

She immediately digs in, pulling out volume after volume. The books cover a staggering array of subjects and genres. Some are variations of stories she knows well and loves, others are completely new to her. She goes through each and every volume, studying them closely, relishing the fine quality of the leather and bindings. The illustrations are of the highest quality and craftsmanship.

Carefully, she sets all of the books out on her bed, enjoying the beautiful sight. She picks up one that caught her eye, a collection of poems. She reads one chapter, then another. Before she knows it, hours have passed and she’s famished.

Belle is about to ring for tea when she stops and looks at her bed, strewn with the gifts, more precious to her than gold. In the last year, Gaston has gifted her with many presents. And without fail, each and every one of them spoke not to the woman she is, but to the woman he expected her to become. They were all preparation for her roles as wife and mother. 

But this gift …

She blinks back a tear. No one has given her a gift this thoughtful, this perfect, since Jacques was alive. She clutches her tome of poetry close to her chest, pierced by loss. Jacques understood her, loved her in spite of her oddness. She never thought to find that level of understanding and compassion again. And yet, Rumplestiltskin, who spent less than a quarter hour in her presence, was able to intuit that such a present would be gladly received.

She takes a breath and assesses the situation. She is not in the business of mischief, but she assumes that one does not steal souls or babies or whatever else it is he steals without having a very good understanding of how to manipulate people. Of course he knew she liked books. She told him she was bookish.

She sighs as she realizes that not even that sober thought can dampen her enjoyment. She’s too delighted with the basket’s bounty to be affronted by the calculating mind that understood she would love the gift.

***

Belle decides against ringing for tea and instead ventures downstairs to the kitchens. It is always a place she has found comforting - warm and fragrant and always filled with conversation. But as she enters the room, a hush falls over everyone. Belle smiles awkwardly, hoping that after a moment or two they will return to normal. But alas, it is not to be. 

She takes a peach and retreats. She does not want to return to her room yet, but she realizes that her recent experience in the kitchen has put her off seeking out more company. She decides to take a walk outside, taking a bite of the peach as she heads for the door. For a moment she considers saddling Philippe and going for a ride, but decides against it. She would have to go upstairs and change her clothes and she doesn’t feel up to the task.

She quickly makes her way to the gate and finds her way barred by Luc, the captain of her father’s guard.

“I would be happy to send an escort with you on your walk,” he offers, showing far more concern for her safety than is typical. Certainly a day late and a dollar short.

Belle frowns, in no mood to be shadowed by some judgmental young man wearing a uniform when all she wants is solitude. “Do you really think that Rumplestiltskin would go to all the trouble of saving our lands from ogres only to allow me to come to harm just outside the castle gates?” she asks.

Luc stares at her, obviously conflicted. “Well, I suppose not, Milady.”

She smiles tightly and motions for him to open the gate, which he does. Belle realizes that she finds it all too easy to use the threat of Rumplestiltskin to get her way. She should be ashamed to take advantage of people’s terror like that. But she’s so tired of being looked at like she’s already ruined. All she’s done is talk to him. And she saved them. She is in a sour mood as she follows the worn path to the well in the woods.

The well water is sweet and clean and she finds that it has restored some of her sense of balance. With a sigh, she continues down the path, startled to realize she is making her way to Edda’s little shack.

When she arrives, Edda is on the porch waiting for her, an apron full of snap beans in her lap and a worn pot at her feet. Edda glances up and motions for Belle to sit on a rickety little stool. Belle is glad for the offer, though she does take care to sit without tipping over.

For a long time, they simply sit there, Belle listening to the sounds of the forest and Edda snapping the ends off the beans and then snapping the beans in half before finally dropping them into the pot.

“My apologies, lass,” Edda finally says, head bowed. “I’m sorry for giving you that idea. I’m not a witch and my words sure enough did not prepare you to deal with the Dark One.”

Belle looks at the old woman. Her skin is lined with years and hardship. Edda had a family once, but sickness took her husband and war took her son. The only family she has left is a granddaughter who lives inside the castle walls. “You’re not a witch,” Belle says thoughtfully, “but you do See.”

Edda’s lips purse together and she nods. “I do.”

“And what did you see for our village if I hadn’t gone?” Belle asks pointedly.

Edda is quiet for a long time. Finally she sighs. “Death. Death to all. And destruction to our lands.”

It is Belle’s turn to be silent. Eventually she feels calm enough to give voice to the thoughts that have occupied her mind for the last several days. “You knew,” she says without censure. “You knew to tell me just enough that I would create a deal that wasn’t specific. You knew _he_ would take me up on it.”

Edda looks at her, clearly shamed. “Aye, lass, I did,” she says quietly.

Belle’s brow furrows. “How did you know he’d want me?” she asks.

“I’m a Seer,” she says. “I knew the Dark One wouldn’t be tempted by your father’s gold or any other payment Sir Maurice and that suitor of yours could devise. I knew it had to be something far more special.”

Belle considers Edda’s words. “In all the stories I’ve heard of Rumplestiltskin, none of them spoke of him taking off with virgins,” she says bluntly. “Stealing souls. Stealing babies. Demanding payment that people can’t make without destroying the very fibre of who they are. Those are the stories I’ve heard of him.” She takes a deep breath. “So I ask again, what made you think he would want me?”

Edda contemplates her carefully. “I figure that even a monster gets lonely, lass. And in all the stories I’ve heard of the Dark One, the part that always rings true is his ability to appreciate the value of something.” Edda frowns. “That suitor of yours … “ She shakes her head. “I saw nothing but misery for you there, girl. You have rare talents. You have the ability to see what is right in front of you. And you have the strength to speak truth to power. Both of those are incredibly rare.”

Belle’s brow furrows again. “And you think these are things Rumplestiltskin will appreciate?”

Edda chuckles. “If he has any sense at all he will. And I’ve not heard him to be a fool.”

***

Twilight has fallen when Belle returns to her room. After a simple supper in front of her fire and several more chapters of her book Belle is ready for bed. As she’s picking up her new books with the intention of returning them to the basket, she realizes that there is something else lying in the bottom. She’s certain it wasn’t there earlier and she carefully removes it.

It is another book, this one bound in soft black leather with no writing on the cover or spine. But placed between the pages of the book is a rather smashed roll of parchment. She removes it and unrolls it and realizes that she is looking at a copy of her contract with Rumplestiltskin.

She lights another candle at her bedside and carefully reads through the entire contract. It takes hours. Her head is swimming with the effort of trying to track and reconcile all of the clauses. She does notice that unlike the note that accompanied the gift, the contract does contain his full signature. She traces the script with the tip of her finger. Perhaps contracts are different. Perhaps he has to use his full name here. She is somewhat unnerved to see her own signature on the scroll as well. She didn’t sign it - not with a quill. And yet, there it is. Her signature by her own hand.

Rubbing her eyes, she finally sets the parchment aside. She will read through it tomorrow. Rumplestiltskin was certainly correct, she will not make the mistake again of making a deal she doesn’t understand. And before she sees him again, she will understand every nuance of this deal.

With a sigh, she glances at the book, forgotten on her quilt. Idly, she reaches for it and flips it open.

She stares at the illustration, her eyes going wide. Scandalized, she snaps the book shut and drops it onto the bed as if it bit her. She stares at the book, almost afraid to touch it. 

Wicked, wicked man.

***  
END CHAPTER TWO


	3. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumplestiltskin pays Belle a visit to discuss her terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to suallenparker for the read through and suggestions. It was incredibly helpful.

Three days pass far too quickly and Belle is tightly wound long before the sun rises. With Verna’s help Belle dresses in her favorite yellow gown. She’s not exactly sure what one wears to meet with the man who has arranged to take one’s virginity. The cynical part of her notes that her arrangement with Rumplestiltskin isn’t all that different from her arrangement with Gaston. No doubt Gaston would also have seen about the business of taking her virginity. And yet, her engagement to Gaston did not engender any of the speculative glances that are now constant any time she ventures out of her rooms. It seems more than a little hypocritical to her.

But as for the dress, it is her favorite and so she wears it. She is not particularly concerned with dressing herself in a way that would please Rumplestiltskin. After all, if there is anything of note to be learned from that wicked book he sent her, it is that clothing won’t play a large role in whatever it is he intends to do to her. Not that she assumed otherwise. She may be an innocent, her only experience being several stolen kisses with a stable boy when she was thirteen and several unwanted advances from Gaston much more recently, however she is not completely naive. She’s been an adult woman for more than a decade and she possessed a fairly good idea of what she was missing, In the broad context at least, even if she had no idea of the myriad possible variations.

Belle stares out the window, wondering when to expect Rumplestiltskin and where. She supposes that he can just materialize wherever he pleases so she shouldn’t expect him to approach through the castle gates.

Sighing, she turns away from the window and - “Aaah!” she yelps, jumping.

Standing calmly in the middle of her room, he frowns.

Quickly recovering, she advances on him. “What are you doing?” she demands. “You can’t be in here. It’s not decent.”

That earns her a smile. “In general, I don’t concern myself with decency. And last time I checked, you weren’t exactly a paragon of decorum yourself.” He punctuates it with one of his shrill giggles.

She narrows her eyes at him, but supposes he’s right. He’s Rumplestiltskin. He can do whatever he wants. He _will do_ whatever he wants. As for her own actions, the extent to which she was willing to make sacrifices to save everything she holds dear isn’t exactly a yardstick for daily behavior. Huffing indignantly, she walks over to the fireplace and motions to one of the chairs. She will be a good hostess, even if he can’t abide by social niceties. “Would you like me to ring for tea?”

He stares at her again, the way he stared at her in the field, like she’s some puzzle he can’t quite figure out. Slowly, he walks to one of the chairs and takes a seat, sprawling back against the cushions, his elbows on the chair's arms, fingers tented together in front of him.

Belle rings for tea and then joins him, carefully smoothing out her long skirts as she takes her seat. They sit there in silence for a moment and finally Belle says, “I read the contract.”

He smiles at that and it seems genuine rather than one of his nasty sneers. “I expected you would.”

She glances at him and then trains her gaze back on the fire. He’s … _odd_ … to look at. Not displeasing necessarily, but odd. Especially his eyes. It will be a while before she is comfortable meeting his gaze. “You said that there is no timeframe for the consummation of our agreement and in reading through the contract, that is not precisely true.”

His expression is a mixture of irritation and enjoyment and she wonders if for him, it’s one and the same. She assumes one doesn’t spend one’s entire life making deals if there isn’t enjoyment to be found in haggling. 

“The contract does not specify a timeframe,” he admits. “But it does allow for one of the parties to require that a timeframe is set.”

“Yes,” Belle says, pursing her lips together tightly as she forces herself to meet his gaze. “Well, I’m requiring a timeframe.”

He’s quiet for a moment, scrutinizing her. “You believe that knowing the date of your deflowering will bring you peace?” he asks skeptically.

She nervously smooths her skirts. “No,” she says firmly. “I don’t believe it will bring me peace. But I also know that you were legend during the time of the First Ogre War, so it only stands to reason that your concept of time is vastly different from mine. I have no desire to spend half my life dreading something. Just set a date and be done with it.”

He laughs. Not one of his mad giggles, but a hearty laugh. He looks at her. “You are …”

“Odd?” she offers wryly, arching an eyebrow.

“Refreshing,” he replies quietly. He watches her and speculatively licks his lips in a way that manages not to be lewd. “Few people have the ability to surprise me, Belle. At my age that is quite a novelty.”

She watches him, aware that this is the first time he’s called her by her name. Her thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door and she bounds up to take the tray from Verna. Good thing too because Verna nearly drops the tray when her eyes light on Rumplestiltskin seated before the fire.

“Miss!” Verna exclaims, pulling at Belle’s arm.

Belle isn’t exactly sure where it is that Verna thinks she’s going to drag Belle. Gently, but firmly, she removes the girl’s hand from her arm. “Thank you, Verna. That will be all.”

Verna is clearly distressed, but Belle shoos her out of the room and takes the tea tray, setting it on the table between the two chairs. Carefully, she pours the tea, noticing the way Rumplestiltskin takes note of the tea set. It was another of the gifts from his magic basket. After that first day, she learned that at least once a day there would be a new item in the basket. The tea set is lovely. The silk underthings she gave to Edda to turn into a rag rug. Or more likely a potholder. There wasn’t much material involved.

“You approve of the tea set?” he asks, his expression guarded.

“I do,” she says brightly. “Though I didn’t tell Verna it was a gift from you. She would have had the clerics try to cleanse it.”

He frowns at that. “And the other gifts?” he asks.

She arches an eyebrow, handing him the cup of tea. “The books were lovely,” she says sincerely. She stops, narrowing her gaze at him. “Most of them.”

He smiles again and it is a wicked smile. 

She resumes her seat and picks up her own cup of tea, taking a sip. She regards him over the rim of the cup. “Nothing in the contract stipulates that I have to do any of those things in that book,” she says, keeping her voice even while her cheeks flame. “And I certainly do not want undergarments from you.”

He giggles in enjoyment, tapping his fingers together in something that is not quite a clap. “Never fear. It wasn’t an agenda for the event, dearie,” he says. “You simply seem like the kind of woman who would appreciate information more than ignorance. I doubt that your former fiance would relish the idea of you having such a measure by which to judge him.” He laughs. “I suspect most of it would be news to him as well.”

She watches him carefully. “And you, sir?” she asks. “You welcome being judged in such a context?”

He makes a pained noise and Belle has the oddest sensation that were his skin not such an unnatural color, he might actually be blushing. He coughs to clear his throat. “Not exactly, welcome, no,” he says evenly. “But I can’t say that the idea of some cowering virgin appeals either. I suppose I would suffer the former to avoid the latter.”

“Ah.” Belle didn’t think her own blush could get any deeper, but it does. “A date,” she reminds him.

He purses his lips together, watching her. “It is just after midsummer’s night,” he muses. “So how about the winter solstice?”

She isn’t certain if he’s asking for her agreement or just talking to himself. Mostly she’s relieved he doesn’t want to wait until Beltane, given his penchant for theatrics. “You want to wait half a year?”

“What is half a year to an immortal and an eccentric spinster?” he asks dryly.

She shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”

“As I said before, dearie, anticipation. At this point, there are few surprises in my life. I find that I care to relish the ones I do have.”

She studies him, confused.

She is still staring at him a moment later when her door is thrown open and her father strides into the room. “Out, beast!” he bellows at Rumplestiltskin.

Belle is immediately on her feet, standing between her father and Rumplestiltskin. She faces her father, Rumplestiltskin at her back. Some part of her brain registers the fact that her father is not flanked by guards or even Gaston. Sir Maurice does not want anyone else to know Rumplestiltskin is in her room.

Glancing over her shoulder, Belle watches as Rumplestiltskin slowly rises to his feet. She has the discomfiting sensation of watching a viper uncurl. His presence seems to grow, the air in the room suddenly stifling under the weight of his power. Her father seems to wilt, taking a half step backwards.

“I have terms to discuss with the lady,” Rumplestiltskin says, his unsettling gaze pinning Sir Maurice where he stands.

Sir Maurice’s mouth works, though no sound comes out. “You cannot be in here. You cannot be in her rooms,” he says lamely.

Rumplestiltskin’s eyebrows arch at that. “You would prefer I deflower her in a public setting?” he asks blandly, as if the venue is irrelevant to him. “Your great hall perhaps? The table looked quite spacious.”

Sir Maurice pales and then his skin takes on a decidedly ashen tinge. 

Belle intercedes, placing her hand on her father’s forearm. “Please, Papa,” she says. “We’re merely speaking. Nothing more. Nothing indecent.”

Sir Maurice searches her face and seems to decide that she is telling the truth. “Oh, Belle,” he whispers. “I have failed you.”

“Yes,” Rumplestiltskin says brightly. “You have. Now leave.”

Belle turns and glares at the imp, but he merely continues to stare at Sir Maurice.

Slowly, Belle ushers her father to the door and eventually sends him away. When she returns to the fireplace, Rumplestiltskin is standing before it, staring into the flames, hands clasped behind his back. Belle takes her seat and sips her tea without tasting it while she waits for him to speak.

Still facing the fireplace, he cocks his head to the side. “You are hiding up here, milady.”

It isn’t a question, but she feels the need to answer. “I find it preferable to being on display as the village pariah.”

He snorts. “Ungrateful peasants.”

Belle studies the delicate porcelain tea cup. “You terrify them” she says evenly. “They are shamed that I made such a sacrifice to save them.”

He turns to face her, incredulity etched on his features. “And you believe that this excuses their behavior?”

“It excuses nothing,” Belle says blandly. “It merely is.”

“Still looking forward to your future as a ruined woman?” he asks, a nasty, mercenary gleam in his eyes.

She regards him neutrally. “I will have to leave here,” she admits. 

“Ah yes,” he says, his voice full of mocking. “The taint of the beast. I’m sure the clerics fingers itch to be able to cleanse your soul as well as your teapot.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “You sacrificed yourself for nothing, my dear.”

“No,” she says firmly, rising to her feet. “Not for nothing. I sacrificed to save my home.”

He watches her for several long moments. “A home that no longer wants you. Not after your association with _me_.”

She sighs and sets down her cup. “You must go,” she says evenly. “I am tired. I need to rest.”

He stares at her and she is well aware that if he decides he’s not leaving, there is absolutely nothing she can do about it. But he relents, giving her a little, mocking bow. “As you wish, My Lady Belle.”

“When will I see you again?” she asks before he can disappear.

He arches an eyebrow at that. “Enjoy my company, do you?” he asks, his words dripping with sarcasm.

“Certainly not today,” she says tartly. “You were horrible.” She takes a deep breath. “But I find these days that my options for conversation are severely limited.” She smooths her skirt again. It’s a nervous movement and she knows he has taken note of that fact. “And if we’re not to consummate our contract until midwinter then it seems like we might as well get to know one another in the interim. It seems like more knowledge of one another might make things … _better_.”

He watches her, but his expression is unreadable. He bows. “As you wish, dearie. I will call upon you in two days.”

And with that, he is gone.

***  
END CHAPTER 3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Luthien and suallenparker for looking over this chapter and providing invaluable feedback.

It is mid morning and Belle is in the stable brushing Philippe when she hears Gaston approaching. For a moment, she considers ducking into a stall. She’s spent the last year avoiding him, but listening to his heavy footfalls, she realizes that today her taste for hiding is gone.

“Belle,” Gaston says, somewhat awkwardly. He was never in the habit of addressing her by her first name and, now that she thinks about it, he usually managed to avoid speaking directly to her if at all possible.

“Gaston,” she says lightly.

He stands there, shifting his weight between his feet, obviously searching for something to say. It seems that without a shared future looming, they have nothing to discuss. Belle continues to brush Philippe.

“I - “ he starts and then stops. “I just wanted to let you know that I will be leaving today.”

“Yes,” Belle says placidly. “I heard. You’re going to Avonlea, yes?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“I have heard that the Lady Althea is lovely,” Belle says seriously. It’s true. Althea is reportedly lovely. And young. And likely pliable. It will probably be a good match. Most of the men of Avonlea were killed or maimed by ogres when the city fell. And for all his faults, Gaston is not lazy. He should be a considerable help in the reconstruction effort.

“Uh, yes,” Gaston says awkwardly. “I have heard of Lady Althea’s loveliness as well.”

Belle sets the brush on a nearby shelf and unties Philippe’s halter from the cross ties before leading him into his stall and securing the door. Philippe wastes no time in heading for his trough, completely unconcerned with whatever it is the humans are doing. Belle has always valued Philippe’s great indifference to anything that isn’t edible.

Belle turns to find Gaston watching her intently and she raises her eyebrows in question.

“I just .. “ Gaston says awkwardly. “I just want you to know that if things had been different. I would - I would have endeavored to be a good husband to you.”

Belle feels a stab of shame at his words. “I know,” she says quietly. And she does know. He would have tried. Tried and failed. She considers for a moment that perhaps she has been too hard on Gaston. He is a simple man and she knows that he never understood why it was that he disappointed her so thoroughly.

“I promised Jacques that I would take care of you,” he says, unable to look her in the eye. “I have failed him.”

Belle frowns. “I know you loved my brother,” she says quietly. “And I know you made a promise. But I cannot imagine that Jacques would have any desire to see the two of us miserable together for the rest of our days.”

Gaston does not refute her words.

Belle sighs. “I wish you a safe journey,” she says.

Gaston nods and turns to leave.

***

The next morning, Belle dresses before dawn. She shuns her formal gowns for one of the simple, sturdy dresses she favored before her engagement to Gaston. The blue one has always been her favorite and it cheers her simply to look at the color and know there is no need to impress anyone. Also, it laces in the front so she can dress without Verna’s assistance.

She pops into the kitchens and packs enough food for the day and then heads to the stables. Philippe is quickly becoming her most reliable companion and he is eager to get the day started, prancing around as the stable boy attempts to saddle him.

Belle and Philippe make their way beyond the castle walls and into the countryside, wandering aimlessly. They race for a while, through meadows they both know well. The day is lovely, sun shining brightly and the sky a brilliant blue. Eventually they tire and they stop at a small stream. Belle unpacks her lunch of crusty bread and fruit while Philippe grazes on meadow grasses.

Belle is dipping her bare feet in the cool stream when she looks up and sees Rumplestiltskin perched on a boulder on the far bank. She’s not surprised by his appearance. She’s not sure that’s a good thing.

“Finished hiding in your rooms, I see,” he says, watching her.

She holds up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and simply looks at him. It seems like viewing him in full sun should make him less imposing, but it really doesn’t. His skin is even more iridescent in the bright light, his irises seeming even larger now that his pupils are slitted against the glare. She realizes that his hair isn’t just one color, but a multitude of grays, browns and even silvers. She does note that for once he isn’t covered from head to foot in imposing dragonhide leathers. 

Perhaps even the powerful Rumplestiltskin is not immune to an overly warm day. He wears a silk shirt the color of old gold and a high collared red brocade vest. Black leather pants and black leather boots complete his attire. Even without the dragonhide, how is he not unbearably uncomfortable in all that? She wonders if, despite his odd appearance, he is perhaps an incredibly vain creature. Rumplestiltskin a slave to fashion? That’s an interesting idea.

Belle drops her hand and leans back, bracing both of her hands behind herself as she turns her face toward the sun. “I am done hiding for the moment,” she says without heat.

She waits, her toes playing in the water, but Rumplestiltskin ventures no closer. He just perches there on the boulder like a magpie scouting for shiny treasures.

“You don’t have to stay all the way over there,” she says. While she doesn’t precisely want him to come closer, she is decidedly uncomfortable with him watching her from afar like a voyeur. She doesn’t care to be observed.

He regards her silently. “It is probably best if I stay over here.” 

She lifts her hand to shade her eyes again and looks at him. He’s uneasy, even in armor of impskin and silks. “Please,” she says.

He smiles tightly and looks pointedly at Philippe. “Animals tend not to like me,” he says sourly. “For his sake as well as yours, it’s best if I stay here.”

Belle looks over her shoulder at Philippe, who is contentedly munching away on grass. She turns back to Rumplestiltskin. “Given that the two of you are my only companions these days, you will just need to become accustomed to each other.” She pats the grass at her side. 

Rumplestiltskin sighs, but rises to his feet. Philippe raises his head and takes notice, but doesn’t seem unduly alarmed. Belle watches as Rumplestiltskin crosses the creek, hopping from stone to stone until he stands at her side. He and Philippe regard each other carefully, but eventually both of them turn away. 

“See,” Belle says, triumphant. “Philippe is odd too. We’ll all get along just fine.”

Rumplestiltskin sinks into the grass at her side, elbows resting on his bent knees. 

Belle casts a sidelong glance at him. “What do you do with your time?” she asks. “Surely there aren’t enough deals to keep you busy from dusk ‘til dawn.”

He chuckles wryly. “There is no shortage of desperate souls.”

She rolls onto her side, propped on one elbow, her fist under her chin as she looks at him. “Truly?” she asks. “You fill all your hours with dealing?”

He meets her gaze, looking like a child who has been caught in a lie. “No,” he admits “As your father discovered, I don’t heed every call.” His nose wrinkles up. “It would ruin the mystique if any dull farmer could just conjure up the Dark One. And as you learned, few people have something I wish to deal for.”

She narrows her gaze. “So what do you do with your time?”

He gestures helplessly with his hands. “This and that.” She notices that in the bright light, his claws are actually a dull greenish gray, not black. She isn’t sure if it’s an improvement or not.

“Such as?” she prompts.

He looks down at her and she can’t tell whether he’s amused or exasperated by her question. Perhaps both. “Why do you care?”

She considers his question. “Maybe I’m just looking for ideas,” she admits. “It seems that my former pastimes aren’t as enjoyable as they used to be now that I’m the subject of constant gossip.” She sighs. “It is incredibly tiresome to have to reinvent one’s self twice in two years.”

At that, he arches an eyebrow. “Twice?”

She nods. “A year ago, when I became engaged to Gaston, I was forced to abandon my comfortable spinster ways and act the part of a lady.” She runs one hand down the length of her worn blue gown. “Luckily that has passed. These dresses are so much more comfortable.”

His eyes follow the path of her hand and she knows that it isn’t her comfort he’s considering. She is aware of the force of his attention, almost like a touch and she finds herself short of breath. His gaze rakes back up her body and his eyes lock with her for a moment before he seems to remember himself and look away. 

Belle stares at his profile for a moment, thinking that for a beast who is supposed to be debauching her, he’s not doing a terribly good job. 

Not that she’s complaining.

“Why were you engaged to your suitor so … “ he falls silent, searching for a delicate way to phrase his question.

“Why was I so old?” she offers bluntly.

He gives her a lopsided smile. “Yes. It seems some chit barely out of the schoolroom would be far more suited to the oaf than a woman of your … forcefulness.”

She sighs, pushing herself into a sitting position next to him. She plucks a wildflower and twirls it in her fingers. “I was never expected to be the one to provide a future for the village through marriage,” she says. “I was free to be an eccentric spinster. I had an older brother, Jacques. He was engaged to the daughter of an earl.” She sighs. “It would have been a good match.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” he says quietly.

She looks at him carefully. “I thought you knew everything,” she says, teasing.

His nose wrinkles. “It it doesn’t involve magic, I generally don’t trouble myself with the details, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart,” she muses. “I like that better than dearie.”

He nods. “Were you and your brother close?”

“Very,” she says quietly. “He was my best friend. He taught me to ride and to fight. He encouraged me to be as bold as he. I’m not sure that my father approved, but after my mother’s death I just don’t think he knew what to do with me.”

“And then you lost your brother,” Rumplestiltskin says, not unkindly.

Belle nods sadly. “Yes. And then I lost him.” She takes a deep breath, blinking back tears. “We lost many young men. Most of them, in fact. Gaston was Jacques’ best friend. There really wasn’t any courting. We were in the middle of a war. Our formerly prosperous lands were on the brink of disaster. One minute I was mourning my brother’s death and the next I was betrothed to Gaston. The best I could manage was to insist on a long engagement, in deference to my grief.” She stares down at her bare feet. “I feel ashamed, using Jacques’ death like that, but I couldn’t marry Gaston. I just couldn’t.”

“Well, let’s not cry over that,” Rumplestiltskin says brightly. “It seems you found an efficient way out of your engagement.”

Belle narrows her eyes at him, frowning. “You’re mocking me in my grief, sir.”

“On the contrary,” he says seriously, all hints of the mad giggling imp gone. “I think you are quite resourceful. I commend you on finding a way to take charge of your fate when none was seemingly available. Everyone has a choice. Few people realize it.” He looks at her, holding her gaze for a long moment. “I once did a very similar thing.”

“Truly?” she asks in wonder. “Tell me.”

He smiles tightly and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to reach out and pat her hand. But he doesn’t. “Maybe some day,” he says. “But not today.”

She frowns at him. “I think Edda was right,” she says.

“Edda? You still talk to that old hag after the mess she got you into?”

“Of course I still talk to Edda,” Belle says, rising to her feet. “She’s one of the few people who will still talk to me without looking at me like they’re imagining you mounting me as we speak.”

He makes a noise that’s halfway between a choke and a laugh, rising to his feet at her side. “Well there’s a mental image,” he says under his breath.

“Indeed,” Belle says wryly, brushing the grass from her skirts. She quickly collects her picnic lunch and her shoes. She goes to Philippe and takes his reins, walking in the general direction of the castle, though they are miles from the wall.

Rumplestiltskin is wary as he approaches Belle and Philippe. For his part, Philippe keeps an eye on the imp, but he doesn’t shy away. The meadow grass is far more interesting and he continues to take great mouthfuls as they walk.

“And what exactly does the old hag say about me?” Rumplestiltskin asks, falling into step with Belle.

“That you’re lonely,” Belle says, glancing sideways, watching his face for a reaction.

He merely shrugs. “Are you so unhappy here, Belle?” he asks, changing the subject. “Do you truly have no friends?”

“It hasn’t been easy since our agreement,” she admits.

He is silent for a long time, merely keeping pace with her. “I could - “ he starts and then stops, almost as if he’s unsure of himself, which is surely not possible given that he’s Rumplestiltskin. “I could take you away from here,” he finally says, glancing at her nervously.

She looks at him passively. “Take me away,” she muses. “What would that make me? A kept woman?” She scrutinizes him for a moment. “Do you do that? Do you keep women?”

He smiles wickedly. “In jars, occasionally, sweetheart. But no, not the way you mean. Not for pleasure.”

“I’m not sure that’s encouraging,” she says aghast.

He smiles, shaking a finger at her. “It was a quip. Not true.”

She frowns at him, but her relief is palpable. With one hand, she gives him a playful shove, laughing as she breaks into a run, Philippe begrudgingly trotting at her side. 

She glances over her shoulder as she runs to watch him. Rumplestiltskin looks at her, his expression unreadable. His hand covers the spot where she touched him for a moment before he jogs after her. 

With a laugh, she runs faster.

***  
End Chapter


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has always hated that tapestry ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Luthien and suallenparker for looking over this chapter and providing invaluable feedback.

Somehow Belle and Rumplestiltskin manage to fall into a routine. Belle spends most of her days beyond the castle walls with Philippe or Edda, dreading the day when the weather turns and she’s forced back into her rooms for the winter. Rumplestiltskin visits her every two or three days provided he’s not away dealing with his many intrigues. He refuses to give her any details about what exactly it is he does with his time. 

Curiosity eats at her even though she knows that ignorance is best where his machinations are concerned. He gladly owns up to his multitude of sins and never tries to pretend to be anything other than what he is. A demon. An imp. A lonely monster. 

She should hate him. Or fear him. But it’s been a long while since she was able to muster either of those emotions in connection with him. And it isn’t that she feels sorry for him. She truly doesn’t. She believes that most of the loneliness and tragedy in his life is of his own doing and he deserves it.

So she doesn’t hate him, doesn’t fear him, doesn’t pity him.

Belle pointedly refrains from asking herself what she does feel toward him. 

Belle sighs, looking out her window at the steady downpour. Even in the height of summer, sometimes the weather does not cooperate. She’s in a sour mood. This is the second day of rain and she’s tired of being cooped up alone. She turns away from the window, leaning back against the sill as she contemplates her room. It’s easier to ignore uncomfortable questions when her mind is otherwise occupied. But at the moment, she’s bored half to death and the thoughts she tries so hard to avoid are demanding attention. 

She looks at the stack of books - his gifts to her. She’s read all of them. Some of them three times.

She doesn’t miss Rumplestiltskin. She doesn’t. He’s _awful_.

Except that most of the time, he really isn’t awful. Not to her at least. Not anymore. She clearly remembers her first several conversations with him. The mad giggles, the wicked glee. The incessant mocking and motion and cruel words. 

But it has been a long time since she last saw that creature, the imp in his horrid glory.

When Rumplestiltskin visits her, he is ... calmer, quieter. No longer the giggling imp. Mostly just a man, complicated and heavily burdened. She realized some time ago that his appearance no longer unsettles her. Not that she was ever deeply disturbed by it, but now he doesn’t even seem terribly odd. She supposes it must be because she sees so few people these days. Or maybe it’s just the way of things. 

When, as a very young girl, she first met Gaston, she thought him so handsome. But it took almost no time for that impression to fade, replaced by an awareness of his less than favorable personality traits. Her change in perspective was so profound that, years later, she can objectively note that he is handsome and yet she she feels no attraction to him. Point of fact, she finds the idea of physicality with Gaston to be repulsive.

Is it possible, she wonders, that one day she will be so inured to Rumplestiltskin’s odd appearance that she will forget to _not_ be attracted to him? She knows that if he was a human man, she would find him quite attractive. His astute mind, his wicked sense of humor, his profound loneliness. Not to mention the fact that he actually listens to her, actually values her opinion. And he gave her books, even if one of them was wicked.

No, it’s not that she finds Rumplestiltskin’s appearance unattractive. It’s more that it’s simply not done. He’s an imp, a professional mischief maker, a baby stealer. It seems … scandalous to be attracted to him - even for an eccentric spinster. And unlike supernatural creatures such as evil sorcerers or werewolves, Belle has never heard any tales of anyone falling in love with Rumplestiltskin. No sordid affairs or broken hearts. Every tale she knows of him concerns his business dealings and his frightening power. 

Well, she supposes wryly, there are surely some new Rumplestiltskin tales now - of the much more sordid and bawdy variety. Tales exaggerate. He has yet to even touch her. Not that she’s complaining. Much.

It has been nearly five days since he last visited. And now it’s raining.

She’s just bored.

Belle stares at the tapestry hanging above her fireplace. She hates it. She’s always hated it. For decades, she has abhorred the very sight of it. She dusts her hands together. Well, today is the last day she’s going to be forced to look at that monstrosity.

***

“What _are_ you doing?” he demands.

She looks down at him from where she is precariously perched on the top rung of the ladder. After five days, she supposes she should be shocked by his abrupt appearance - but she’s not. She tugs on the tapestry. “Removing this eyesore.” 

She takes note of the fact that once again, he has foregone his dragonhide coat, instead wearing a silk shirt of deep bronze and a gold brocade waistcoat. She wonders if the rain would ruin the dragonhide. Surely not. If so, how would dragons ever go out in the rain?

He stands at the bottom of the ladder, watching her, his brow furrowed. “Let me do it,” he says, raising his hand to use magic.

“No,” she snaps, not frustrated with him so much as the tapestry. “I’ll do it. I started it. I’ll finish it.” She pulls at the tapestry again and mutters under her breath. “What did they do? Nail it up here?”

“Yeah,” he says dryly, still watching her, his irritation clear.

She grunts and tugs hard on the tapestry which abruptly gives way, pulling her off balance as it falls. She tumbles from the ladder. Belle braces herself for the pain of crashing to the floor, but it never comes.

She realizes with a start that he caught her. Her arm is around his shoulders and he clutches her to his chest as if she weighs nothing. He looks at her without really seeing her and then glances up at where the tapestry had been, blinking. Eventually, he looks into her eyes and seems to realize all at once that he’s holding her.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

Her words seem to snap him out of his stupor and he nods, awkwardly setting her on her feet. He means to set her down and push her away, but Belle’s arm is still around his shoulders and she clings to him. 

His hands are on her hips and he doesn’t move. So close against him, she can feel the coiled tension in his body. He’s not much taller than she and she can feel the warm puff of his breath against her temple.

She tilts her face up to his. He holds perfectly still, his entire body rigid. She can feel his breathing, quick and shallow, like her own. Slowly, she rises up on tiptoe and presses her lips to his. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe as their lips touch. She hasn’t spent a lot of time imagining what it would be like to kiss Rumplestiltskin, but she has to admit, this is not what she expected. His lips are warmer than she would have thought, softer, and he tastes faintly of tea and sugar and citrus. 

And again, for a demon who is supposed to be ruining her, he’s awfully well behaved.

She pulls back just far enough that she can look in his eyes, even though it’s not easy to focus at such a close distance. His lips part and his tongue comes out to trace along his lips as if searching for the taste of her. She leans forward again and this time his lips are pliant against hers. As she leans into him, he kisses her back.

Her hands, which are on his shoulders, slide against the silk and brocade as she moves them to cup his face. When she touches him, he groans, his fingers biting into her hips, pulling her closer as he deepens the kiss. Her lips part under his and her breath catches in her throat as the tip of his tongue gently traces against her bottom lip. She can feel him shift his weight as if he’s going to pull away and she threads the fingers of her left hand through his hair, holding him still.

His hands leave her hips, wrapping around her body and pulling her close. She can feel the restrained power in his body and she wonders, truly, how strong he is. He caught her with ease, held her as if he didn’t notice her weight at all. And yet, she can hold him still with the gentle pressure of her hands, the press of her lips.

Her left hand is still threaded through his hair, but her right hand traces the edge of his jaw, her fingers trail lightly along his neck. She can feel more than hear the growl of satisfaction and he hitches her even more tightly against his body. She can feel him _there_ , hard for her. Emboldened, she uses her tongue to trace his lips and she can feel his body strung taut like a bowstring, his internal war with himself to allow her to do what she wants and his own desire to … well, Belle’s not sure exactly what, but something _more_.

The backs of her knees hit the edge of her bed and Belle abruptly sits down. She hadn’t noticed they were moving. She reaches for him, to pull him down with her but he seems to finally come to his senses and stumbles gracelessly backwards, his hands moving frantically as if to ward her away.

She watches as he lurches away, going to the fireplace, sidestepping the fallen tapestry. He rests one hand on the mantle, hunched over as if he’s in physical pain.

“Rumplestiltskin?” she says softly.

He does not turn, instead holding a hand out toward her, index finger extended in a tacit request for time.

She sighs, shoulders slumping as she watches him. She tries to take stock of herself. That was … unexpected. She’s looked at that wicked book he gave her, so she understands the mechanics of what men and women do with each other - in shocking detail. But she had no idea that a mere kiss could be so … _consuming_. She feels hot and cold and breathless and … aching for him. Does he feel the same? She looks at his pained stance and assumes he must.

It is minutes later when he finally straightens and turns to face her. He seems more composed, but still unsettled. Warily, he approaches where she still sits on the bed, but he stops several paces away.

She looks at him and pats the mattress at her side.

“That would not be a good idea,” he says.

“Why?” Oh, she has a very good idea of why, but she wants to torture him. Just a little.

“I’ve only ever broken one deal in my life, sweetheart,” he says, voice strained. “I swore I would never break another. But if I join you on that bed, our deal is going to be consummated far sooner than midwinter.”

She supposes that should scare her, but it doesn’t. She beams at him.

He looks at her and his eyes scrunch closed, as if his head aches. Belle gets that reaction a lot - from a lot of people. She had a nurse who wore that expression for years. Taking pity on him, she pushes herself off the bed and walks toward the fallen tapestry, giving him a wide berth. She tugs the tapestry out of the way so it’s not in danger of catching fire from the hearth, though she does make a mental note to burn it later. Good riddance.

She glances at him. He looks calmer. “I studied that book you sent me,” she says blandly. “You know, the wicked one.”

He won’t look at her. “ _Oh?”_

“I could certainly be missing some of the nuances,” she says lightly. “But it led me to believe there are any number of activities we could engage in that would not technically violate our contract.”

He makes a pained sound and turns completely away from her.

She smiles.

“Be careful with the disaster you court, milady,” he says tightly.

She takes a step closer to him. “Or what?”

He chuckles and it is a dark, mirthless sound. “Or you may get that which you seek.”

She takes another step, and then another. She’s standing right behind him. She can see the tension in his body, feel the heat radiating off him. “I rather think that’s the point,” she says in a near whisper.

He stands there, unmoving. “Many a desperate soul believes they want what they seek - until they have it.”

She frowns at that, irritated by the dark turn of his mood - and the implication that she’s a desperate soul. She sighs, retreating, and takes a seat in one of the chairs before the fire. “Where were you?” she asks. “Why were you away so long?”

He glances over his shoulder at her and seems assured that she is indeed changing the subject. He takes a deep breath and some of the strain seems to leave his body. He turns around and steps up to the other, unoccupied chair and grips the back, keeping it between Belle and himself. “Business,” he says flatly.

“Yes, I know,” she says. “What kind of business?”

“Did you miss me, dearie?” he asks bitterly.

“Yes,” she replies, somewhat shocked to realize it’s true.

That seems to take some of the bite out of his nasty mood and he sighs, walking around the chair and taking a seat.

“You look tired,” she says quietly. And he does. It’s somewhat of a novelty to learn that she’s familiar enough with his appearance to see the subtle changes that would be lost on others.

He nods, slumping forward, forearms braced against his thighs as he carefully contemplates the toes of his boots. “I apologize, Belle,” he says quietly. “That was … not what I intended. I will use more care in the future.”

“More care?” she asks, truly confused.

He looks up at her, smiling a tight, mirthless smile. “A glamour at the very least.”

She stares at him, uncomprehending. “A what?”

“A glamour, sweetheart,” he says patiently. “Something to make this,” he motions to himself, “more palatable. The contract requires that it be me, but at the very least I can spare you the sight.”

It takes her a moment to realize what he’s saying and when she does, she gapes at him. “A glamour?” she demands crossly. It’s not a yell. Not quite. “You’re going to make yourself look like someone else when … when … when we … “ She falls silent and settles for just glaring at him, fuming.

“Anyone you like,” he says evenly.

She jumps to her feet. “Of all the … _Rumplestiltskin_ ,” she yells. This time it is a yell, so loud people walking in the courtyard can probably hear. Over the rain. “You will not use magic to make yourself look like someone else while we are - “ she seems to catch herself and abruptly lowers her voice to a whisper, “ _intimate_.”

He stares at her again, completely at a loss. His mouth works as he searches for something to day and finally he just seems to deflate and says, ” Okay.”

She feels a little bad for him. He looks so tired and confused.

Glamour indeed. She frowns, crossing her arms over her chest.

***  
END CHAPTER 5


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle's birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Luthien and suallenparker for looking over this chapter and providing invaluable feedback.

“Ah, there you are, girl,” Edda says, rising from where she is squatting in front of a roaring fire, stirring a pot in the clearing in front of her shack. “I’ve been expecting you and your trinket.”

“Good morning, Edda,” Belle says brightly, far more brightly than she truly feels. She clutches the beautiful gift in her hand.

“Aww,” Edda shakes her head. “It’s a tough one, now isn’t it, lass? Tougher than the others. So far as birthdays go.”

Belle’s eyes prick with tears and she quickly blinks them back. “It is,” she admits. “Unexpectedly so.”

Edda gives her a knowing smile. “Age has a way of doing that, sneaking up on you.” She ushers Belle toward the front porch. “But never fear. In thirty more years you’ll long for how young you are today.”

Belle chuckles. “I suppose that is true.”

Edda seats herself in her chair and then looks at Belle on her stool. “The girls were sweet,” she says wistfully. “So worried about you. They begged me to make a potion for you that would keep that horrible imp away. They were so sincere and so upset that I felt the need to give them something for their troubles.”

Belle holds up her lone birthday present, given to her earlier that morning by Verna, Alma and Dora. It is a beautiful creation to be certain, all the more so because it’s been weeks since Alma and Dora even spoke to her. It’s incredibly touching that they thought of her. But ever prudent, Belle thought it best to get the information direct from the source on what exactly the present is.

“I thought it best not to tell them,” Edda says, looking at Belle pointedly, “that you don’t want your imp kept away.”

Belle looks at Edda from beneath her lashes, feeling her cheeks flame. 

Gently, Edda reaches over and pats Belle’s leg. “What’s between you and him is between you and him,” she says quietly. “None of my business, nor them girls. I figured if you wanted a ward you would have asked for one yourself. I’ve not noticed you to be shy.”

***

Belle wears a beautiful satin dress of cerulean blue as she stares out her bedroom window, watching the festivities in the courtyard below. She dressed earlier, before cowardice got the better of her and she decided to merely observe the dance from afar. The evening is warm and the music carries easily on the breeze. Her room is dark, making it easier to see the events of the dance play out below against the backdrop of the bonfire.

She pulled a bench - the one that usually sits at the foot of her bed - over to the window and sits there with her chin pillowed on her hands on the windowsill. She remembers doing this as a child, when she was too young to attend the dances, but it has been years and years since she has watched from a distance. 

She hears his boots on the stone floor and turns to glance at him for a moment before turning her attention back to the dance. He’s dressed in a silk shirt and waistcoat in a matching deep bronze and while he does wear a coat tonight, it’s not his dragonscales. It’s a soft, black leather that matches his black leather pants and boots.

“Are you still upset?” he asks cautiously. 

It’s been three days since she last saw him and they didn’t end on a particularly good note. She’s surprised he returned so quickly. She figured he would be gone for a week. She glances at him again. “You mean because you wanted to make yourself look like someone else when we were together?”

He frowns. “It’s called a glamour and I’m hardly the first one to consider using one. People are willing to make some very lucrative deals for magic such as that.”

She pushes herself up and glares at him. “Why would you possibly think that it would be preferable to me to be kissing you while you look like someone else?”

“Because I’m not human,” he says flatly.

“Exactly,” Belle says, rolling her eyes. “You’re not human. And I know what you look like. And I already kissed you looking exactly the way you are. Making yourself look like someone else would accomplish nothing but making the entire event a thousand times more awkward than it needs to be.”

“Perhaps I will be going,” he says, turning away.

She sighs. “No. Wait.”

He turns back to her and she gives him a sullen look. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not particularly good company right now.”

He watches her warily, but steps closer. He looks at her gown and then out the window at the dancers in the courtyard. The cheerful music fills the room. “You wish to be down there.”

She looks at the merry revelers. “Maybe a little,” she admits. “But that’s not why I’m upset.”

Despite looking like he’d rather be flayed alive than have this conversation, Rumplestiltskin does ask. “What _is_ the matter?”

She sighs, staring out the window. “As of dawn this morning, I am thirty years old.”

He watches her for a moment and then takes a seat next to her on the bench. “I didn’t realize it was your birthday,” he says quietly.

“I know,” she says. “Thankfully, my father forgot as well.”

Clearly trying to get a handle on the nuances of her mood, he asks lightly, “So no one remembered your birthday?”

Belle stands up and walks over to the little table near the fireplace and picks up her present from the girls. She is very aware of Rumplestiltskin’s eyes on her as she resumes her seat on the bench. She holds the item up so it’s backlit by the bonfires. The gift is a glass vial, stoppered with a cork. The liquid inside is a deep pinkish red and there is something floating inside that captures the firelight from the dance below and sparkles. “Verna and a couple of the girls who work in the kitchen remembered. They pitched in together and got me this.” 

He looks at it skeptically. “What is it?”

“A potion,” she says with a chuckle, lowering her hands and clasping the vial in her lap. “From Edda.”

He snorts. “Edda couldn’t brew a decent potion if her life depended on it. What is it really?”

“I went straight to Edda to ask her the same thing. It’s water, beet juice and some fool’s gold.” She smiles tightly. “The girls went to her and begged her to make a potion that could ward you off.”

He looks incredulously at the little vial in her lap. “Beet juice and fool’s gold? I’ve never been particularly fond of beets, but I hate to break it to you, that’s not going to work. And Edda doesn’t have the talent to successfully give me a rash, much less keep me away from you.”

Belle rolls her eyes and shoves her shoulder playfully against his. “Well, I didn’t know if Edda could actually make a ward or not, but she said she didn’t even try. She said she felt honor bound to give them something, but she figured I wouldn’t be too pleased with her if she gave them something that could actually keep you away.”

“Well,” he says lamely and then falls silent. Belle knows he’s reassessing his impression of Edda.

They sit there on the bench together for a long while, listening to the revelry and watching the dancers.

“You’re upset about your birthday,” he says quietly.

She contemplates his question. “Upset isn’t the right word. It’s just - “ She sighs. “It’s like grief maybe.”

“Grief?”

Belle searches for a way to explain the tumult of emotions. “You’re a man,” she says pointedly, turning to face him. “An _old_ man. I don’t know that I can explain it to you in any way that won’t sound overwrought.”

“Try,” he challenges, a playful grin on his lips.

She sighs. “It’s loss. The loss of being a young woman with all the potential it entails. Little girls grow up with these ideas that one day a handsome prince on a white horse will appear, vanquish the dragon and ride off into the sunset with you as his princess. You’ll live happily ever after and have a dozen beautiful babies and that will be your life.”

He watches her, careful to keep his expression neutral.

“But then the little girl grows up. And in my case, at least, I learned to do all those things for myself that the stories told me should be the prince’s responsibility - even if it makes my father unhappy.” She sighs. “Then one day the grown woman wakes up and realizes that the prince isn’t coming. And not for some maudlin reason. Not because the she isn’t young enough or pretty enough. But because she is no longer a little girl. She’s a woman. And she’s capable of doing all these things for herself. And she no longer wants - no longer can allow - any prince to do them for her.”

His brow furrows. “And that’s sad?”

“In a way,” Belle says quietly. “Sad to realize that even if there was a prince, that I wouldn’t allow him to save me. That I’d vanquish the dragon myself. And so there’s no happily ever after and no dozen smiling babies. Just me. And my … terrible _competence_.”

“And you don’t think that perhaps it is a partner you need rather than a prince?”

“A partner.” She snorts. “As far as I can tell, those are even more rare than princes on white steeds. Was it my competence that drew you to me?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer. “No, it wasn’t. It was my maidenhead, my purity. If Gaston had managed to be just a tad more seductive, you wouldn’t be here now either, so don’t insult me by pretending it’s not true.”

He doesn’t take the bait. “Is it so bad, to not need saving?”

“Bad?” she asks, anger fading. “No. It’s freedom to not need saving.”

“So what’s the problem then?”

She shrugs, searching for the answer. “It’s just not very romantic is all.”

He chuckles. “So it’s romance you want, not youth or a prince.”

She laughs at herself. “It would appear so.”

“Well in that case,” he says, rising to his feet. He bows deeply to her and offers her his hand. “My lady, may I have this dance?”

She smiles brightly at him, rising to her feet and taking his hand with a curtsey. “I would be delighted, kind sir.”

Belle has danced before, most often with Gaston and it was generally a very awkward affair. Their differences in height were so pronounced and Gaston seemed to spend most of his time trying not to trip over her or himself. 

By contrast, dancing with Rumplestiltskin is like skating on the perfect surface of a newly frozen pond. With one hand on her hip and the other clasping her hand, he twirls her effortlessly around the room. She can’t help but giggle as he spins her, leading her easily in the complicated steps of the dance, keeping perfect pace. She gives a passing thought to the fact that his magic must be subtly changing the dimensions of her room. For while her room is spacious, it isn’t nearly large enough to accommodate a pair of dancers. And yet it does, beautifully so.

The music ends and he bows to her again as she curtseys, still giggling with joy. He watches her, a small smile playing on his lips and from behind his back, he produces a rose.

“For me?” she asks with feigned shock.

“If you’ll have it,” he says with a charming smile.

She takes the rose gladly, savoring its lovely scent. “Thank you,” she says softly.

He gestures with his hands, seeming suddenly shy. “It’s no matter,” he says. “A gift of simple magic to a beautiful woman on her birthday.”

“Magic?” she says, tapping the rose lightly against her lower lip. “Don’t they say that all magic comes at a price?”

He watches her closely, his eyes seeming to darken. “Aye,” he says softly. “They do.”

She steps closer to him, looking pointedly at the rose and then back to him. “And what is your price for this, deal maker?”

“No price,” he says quietly. “This one is my treat.”

“Ah,” she says, her lips pursing into a pout. “But maybe just a little token of gratitude then.” She grasps his shoulder in her free hand and pushes herself up on tiptoe to press her lips to his.

This time he does not attempt to keep her at a distance. His arms immediately circle her body, pulling her closer as he slants his mouth against hers. Her breath catches in her throat as his tongue traces against her bottom lip and she eagerly parts for him. Unlike the slow smolder of their last kiss, this sets Belle’s body alight in an instant. Her fingers thread through his hair as the rose falls to the ground, forgotten. This time, he seems unable to keep his hands still, one gently cradles the back of her head while the other smooths down the length of her body, coming to rest at the curve of her rump.

She squeaks a little, but the sound is immediately swallowed by his kiss. She realizes that, while unexpected, the sensation only adds to her enjoyment. She touches her tongue hesitantly to his and he groans, both of his hands flexing tighter.

She breaks off the kiss, gasping for air and then giggles with the mad glee of the moment. Denied her mouth, he kisses down the column of her neck, urging her to bend backwards, supporting her easily with his arm at her back. 

“You’re sure about the glamour?” he asks, at least that’s what she thinks he asked. It’s rather difficult to understand him with his face pressed so tightly to her neck.

Nevertheless, she grabs his head in both hands and forces him to look her in the eyes. “I swear, if I hear one more word about a glamour I’m going to bite you, Rumplestiltskin.”

He stares at her for a moment and then narrows his eyes. “Minx,” he says before once again kissing along her jaw.

She’s not at all certain if that is a condemnation or not. She wonders, for a fleeting moment, if he wants her to bite him. Regardless, that will have to wait. “This isn’t fair,” she says, tugging ineffectually at his collar.

“What?” he asks, distracted, having resumed his exploration of her neck.

“Your collar,” she complains. “I can’t even reach you.”

“Yes,” he mumbles, “pity.” He doesn’t sound at all concerned with her dilemma. And why should he be? Her low cut dress is providing absolutely no resistance to his marauding mouth.

Belle growls in frustration, pulling away from him. He lets her go, but blinks at her, confused. She takes advantage of the situation, pushing him, forcing him to walk backwards. Clearly, he has no idea what she’s doing, but he doesn’t stop her. She grabs the lapels of his black leather duster and tugs on them, so the jacket starts to slide down his arms. Then she gives him one last shove, sending him toppling onto his back across her bed. She immediately follows, crawling on top of him, despite the obstacle of her voluminous skirts.

“Ah, Belle,” he says, brow furrowed, blinking up at her. With the jacket partway down his arms and him lying on his back, he is effectively trapped, unable to use his arms.

She grins wickedly down at him. “Yes?”

He clears his throat. “I, uh,” he swallows. “I think perhaps this isn’t the best idea.”

“Oh, you’re wrong,” she says seriously. “This is a _fantastic_ idea.” She bites down on her bottom lip and her nimble fingers make quick work of the buttons of his waistcoat.

“Ah, Belle,” he says again, clearly anxious. “What are you doing?”

She looks at him like he’s a half-wit. “Unwrapping my birthday present,” she says, as if the answer is painfully obviously. Which, really, it is. She finishes with the last button of his waistcoat and then starts with his shirt. 

“ _Ah, Belle_ ,” he says again, this time doing his best to sit up. She presses her hands to his shoulders and pushes him back down into the bed. She stays as she is, leaning over him, staring down at him. He wants her. She knows that beyond the shadow of a doubt. And if she did doubt, there is ample evidence poking her in her nether regions at the moment, even if there are approximately a hundred layers of cloth separating them. 

But his face isn’t exactly flushed with desire …

Slowly, she sits back, folding her hands in her lap, watching him. He stares up at the ceiling and takes a deep, shaky breath. If he weren’t Rumplestiltskin, she might feel a little bad at the moment. But he is Rumplestiltskin. And they both know that if he really wanted to end this, he could do so with little more than a thought.

“How long has it been?” she asks quietly.

His lips purse together and he doesn’t look at her. “How long has what been?” he asks, even though Belle is certain he knows exactly what she’s asking.

She reaches out, trailing her fingers down his neck. She can see the muscles in his jaw flex. “How long has it been since someone touched you like this?” she asks.

He presses his eyes tightly shut for several long moments. When he does open his eyes, he looks at her. “Not including you,” he says. “A very, very long time.”

She watches him carefully. “How long?”

He chuckles mirthlessly. “Hundreds of years, sweetheart.”

She frowns and leans forward over him again. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

She sighs and sits back for a moment before awkwardly crawling off him and sitting at his side. She has to look like a total disaster. The dress is never going to recover. For his part, he shrugs out of the duster and sits up, waistcoat hanging open.

Belle swings her feet nervously back and forth over the edge of the bed. “Well, I suppose it feels like hundreds of years for me.” She glances over at him. “But I gather that it actually being hundreds of years is rather something different.”

“Indeed,” he says, staring blindly into the fire on the other side of the room.

She stares down at her hands. “That always seemed like one of the small blessings of marriage,” she says. “Being able to physically touch someone.” She sighs. “Though I’m not sure that it makes up for the rest of the tedium of being shackled to someone for your entire life.”

“It doesn’t,” he says bluntly. “And marriage is no guarantee of physical affection either.”

She looks at him, studying his profile. “You were married.”

He nods. “Long, long ago.”

Her brow furrows as she watches him. “Tell me,” she says softly.

He glances over at her and shakes his head. “There’s nothing to tell,” he says. “It is nothing but a wisp of memory now. I lost her.”

“Did you love her?”

He won’t look at her. “Once, perhaps,” he says. “But not at the end, no. I didn’t.”

Belle reaches out and touches his hand lightly. He flinches reflexively, but then forces himself to relax. As she threads her fingers through his, he allows it.

He sighs and then laughs at himself. “Well, I am certainly no prince charming,” he says, “interrupting your birthday debauchery with maudlin sentiment.”

She gasps in mock outrage. “It wasn’t debauchery!”

He looks over at her, expression deadly seriously. “Oh, madam, it most certainly was. You fully intended to have your wicked way with poor, helpless me.”

Her mouth falls open as she looks at him. “ _Wicked_? I’m not the wicked one, you are.”

He shakes his head. “My waistcoat begs to differ.”

She makes a noise that’s half frustrated growl and half laugh. She pushes off the bed, intending to stalk away, but he catches her around the waist and drags her back across his lap. She wants to play hard to get, but finds she doesn’t have the taste for it in light of his revelations. Deliberately, she wraps her arm around him, pressing her side to his front, leaning against him. At least with the waistcoat hanging open, that damn collar isn’t poking her in the face.

He cradles her close and she sighs, enjoying the feeling of being held so gently. No one has ever touched her like this before. What must it be like, she wonders, to know this feeling and to then be bereft of it for hundreds of years? She can’t imagine. Surely a human heart was never meant to know such longing.

“Oh, I dropped my rose,” she says, pushing herself up.

With a snap of his fingers, the rose is clasped between his index finger and thumb. With a smile, he hands it to her again.

“Thank you,” she says with a gentle smile, melting against him again.

***

There is a pounding on the door and Belle reluctantly opens one eye. She is lying on top of her bed, still clothed in her poor, ruined gown. After their tumultuous evening, Rumplestiltskin lay down with her on the bed and they talked into the wee hours of the morning, doing nothing more scandalous than holding hands and sharing a few chaste kisses. 

She props herself up on one elbow and glances at the pillow, which still bears the indentation of his head, and finds her rose. Smiling gently, she picks up the rose. 

“Miss!” Verna yells, pounding again.

With a groan, Belle crawls out of bed and goes to the door, which, she knows did not have a lock yesterday. She pulls open the door and looks crossly at Verna. “What?”

Verna frowns, taking in Belle’s disheveled appearance. “There’s an envoy here, Miss,” she says. 

“An envoy from where?” Belle asks, stepping back to let Verna into the room.

“From King Midas’s court,” Verna says, entering the room and immediately going to Belle’s wardrobe. “And he’s here to see you.”

Belle gapes at the girl. “ _What_?”

 

***

END CHAPTER


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The envoy arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Luthien and suallenparker for looking over this chapter and providing invaluable feedback.

With Verna’s help, Belle dresses quickly and hurries down to the great hall. She pushes through the doors and sees the envoy engaged in conversation with her father. Stopping dead in her tracks, she turns and looks over her shoulder, frowning at Verna. For her part, Verna looks completely unrepentant before she scurries around the corner.

“Gaston,” Belle says evenly, resuming her journey to where her former fiance stands speaking with her father at the large table in the middle of the great hall. “Verna informed me that there was an envoy from King Midas’s court,” she says with a tight smile. “I wasn’t expecting him to be you.”

He turns and faces her, giving her a stiff, perfunctory bow. “Yes,” he says tightly. “I regret that I didn’t have time to send advance notice of my visit.”

“Indeed,” Belle says, taking a seat at the table. “I wasn’t even aware you had visited Midas’s court. I thought you were in Avonlea.”

He flushes slightly at that, swallowing audibly. “I was in Avonlea,” he says. “For a while. But then another opportunity presented itself.”

“A far more lucrative opportunity, I’m sure,” she says with a poison smile.

Gaston frowns at her. “Yes,” he says evenly. “Far more lucrative.”

Belle sits back in her seat, watching Gaston with blatant suspicion. Some mischief is undeniably afoot here and she has no desire to be drawn into its midst.

“Belle,” her father cajoles, “at least listen to what Gaston has to say. He has traveled far.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, her gaze darting between the two men in her life who have tried so hard to steer her destiny - despite her wishes.

Gaston clears his throat. “I am here to extend an invitation to you, Belle, to visit King Midas’s court.”

She frowns again. “And why exactly would King Midas have any idea who I am, much less invite me to court?”

“Word of the ogres’ retreat has spread far,” Gaston explains. “As has your hand in it.”

“My hand,” she says tightly. “Interesting that it’s my _hand_ that’s part of the tale.” She looks Gaston up and down. “And what exactly is in it for you?”

“A place in Midas’s court,” Gaston says frankly. “But only if I am successful in bringing you back with me. Midas only wants to speak with you, to ask your advice.”

“My advice indeed. And what exactly did you tell Midas, Gaston?” she says, leaning forward. She isn’t exactly sure what’s come over her, but she has no interest in being bartered like prized livestock. Especially not by Gaston.

She can see his jaw muscles flex and he looks righteously indignant as he stares at her. “I told him only that you were the one responsible for driving away the ogres.”

To her own shock, she believes him. He’s never been a terribly proficient liar. He tends to get his way through bullying, not subterfuge. Sighing, she leans back in her chair again. “And why exactly would I want to visit Midas’s court? He’s not my king. I need nothing from him.”

“ _Belle_ ,” Maurice chides.

Belle winces, but refuses to back down. Backing down was what got her engaged to Gaston in the first place. She’s finished being a witness to her own life.

“Is your imp going to marry you?” Gaston demands.

Belle’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Your imp,” Gaston says. “I know he drove away the ogres and he intends to bed you if he hasn’t already, but what more has he promised you?”

 _“More_?” Belle demands. “You mean aside from sparing our village and hundreds of lives? You think he owes us more?”

“Not us, Belle,” Gaston challenges. “ _You_. Or is your virtue so easily purchased that he needs do nothing more than speak a few words to the ogre lords, order them to bypass your village while they decimate everything else in the kingdom?”

“I was not concerned about the kingdom,” Belle says tightly. “I was concerned with my village.”

“Exactly,” Gaston says, “your village. Which you are now so eager to abandon.”

“Abandon?” Belle yells, rising to her feet.

“Yes,” Gaston yells back. “Abandon. Or have you completely forgotten your responsibilities to your people?”

“How dare you - “ Belle rages.

“How dare you,” Gaston counters. “Or do you think that a couple of minutes spent on your back with a beast absolves you of any responsibility for those hundreds of people he spared?”

Belle gapes at him, but can find no words.

“Jacques is dead,” Gaston says flatly. He glances at Maurice. “Your father grows old. It is your responsibility to see to the future of this village and all you’re doing is looking for an escape. You are the one to see to the future of the village now and what are you doing but entertaining a demon? A demon who obviously has no honorable intentions toward you. You need to find a husband. One who won’t care that you were bedded by the imp. In that, Midas can help. You would be both a fool and a whore if you shunned his generosity.”

Belle isn’t aware of moving, but she hears the slap, feels her hand sting and watches as Gaston’s cheek reddens. For a moment, she thinks he means to hit her back, but he stops himself, glaring at her.

Turning on her heel, she leaves the great hall.

***

“Oh, Edda,” Belle says, kicking idly at the dirt, “I don’t know what came over me. It was like all the hurt and resentment of the past year just boiled over. I was horrible.”

Edda snorts. “I suspect your former suitor was horrible as well.”

“Well,” Belle admits, “yes. But Gaston is often horrible.” She groans in irritation. “The worst part is that he wasn’t wrong. I have been eager to abandon my responsibilities.”

Edda looks over at Belle but says nothing, which in itself, speaks volumes. The old woman takes another ball of yarn out of her little basket and continues her knitting. “Did you talk to _him_ about this? About his intentions?”

“Rumplestiltskin?” Belle asks incredulously. “No. Why would I?”

“Because that overgrown boy has a point,” Edda says. “If Rumplestiltskin has no responsibilities beyond fulfilling your agreement for the ogres, you’ve got to look for other options.”

Belle frowns. Her head aches. “I don’t even know where he is,” she admits sourly. “I can’t just summon him at will. He visits me at his convenience, not the other way around.”

“Well,” Edda says tartly, “then it serves him right.”

Belle looks at Edda skeptically. As fond as she has grown of Rumplestiltskin, she still finds it dangerous to speak of him in such a cavalier manner. He is, after all, the Dark One. “So you think I should go?” she asks. “Speak with Midas?” She swallows and then continues much more quietly, ”Look for a husband?”

“Indeed, I do, lass,” Edda says, nodding.

Belle’s brow furrows. “You don’t think it will anger Rumplestiltskin? I mean, if he comes to visit and finds me gone?” She really can’t contemplate anything beyond that action.

Edda chuckles. “Oh, I suspect the imp will be hoppin’ mad,” she says with a wicked grin. “But it serves the old demon right. If there’s anything he knows how to do, it’s how to make a deal that would bind you up tight.” She looks at Belle pointedly, arching an eyebrow. “He didn’t. Probably so he didn’t have to bind himself up neither. Serves him right for bein’ a coward.”

Belle sighs and slumps on her stool. She feels awful, cross and unhappy and completely out of sorts. She feels guilty because Gaston’s words, however clumsily delivered, rang with truth. She does owe the village more than sparing them from the ogres. Avoiding death does not a future make.

She owes the village a real future. But, truth be told, she doesn’t want to have to provide them with one. Not when it means shackling herself to the highest bidder. She wishes she could have a man’s freedom, the freedom to rule, to do something braver than producing a pack of heirs to rule in her stead.

“You don’t want to look for a husband,” Edda says quietly.

“No,” Belle admits crossly, “I don’t.”

“Do it anyway,” Edda says with a wink. “You might be surprised what you find.”

***

Belle stares out the window at the waiting carriage, adjusting cuff of her riding habit. She’s managed to stall for two days, but she can’t delay any longer. King Midas is hosting a masquerade two weeks hence and if she has any intention of finding a husband, she needs to be there. Truthfully, she has no such intention. But she feels sufficiently shamed and honor bound at this point to at least look like she’s making an attempt. She hopes that she can barter a deal with Midas lucrative enough to help the village without the need for her to wed immediately. Given sufficient time, she’s certain she can come up with a permanent solution that doesn’t involve a husband.

Maurice was adamant that Belle take a chaperone on her travels. Belle countered that if the reason she’d been invited to Midas’s kingdom was to discuss how she traded her maidenhead to the Dark One, taking a chaperone seemed patently ridiculous. In the end, Belle ended up with not one chaperone, but two, Verna and Alma. However uneasy things might be between Belle and the girls at this point, she is at least glad that she won’t be on her own with Gaston and a dozen of her father’s finest guards. 

Belle knows it is folly to leave without at least telling Rumplestiltskin where she’s going. He’s the Dark One, of course. Surely he can find her no matter where she goes. But it seems rude to leave without telling him. Especially in the company of Gaston. 

It is true that nothing about her visit to Midas’s kingdom in any way violates her agreement with Rumplestiltskin, but still …

“Belle!” Gaston bellows.

Frowning, Belle heads for the stairs.

***

“I’ll ride, thank you,” Belle says, ignoring the carriage door that Gaston holds open. She heads for Philippe and mounts before Gaston or any of the guards can offer assistance. Without even looking at Gaston, she can feel his glare. Astride Philippe, Belle feels much better. She enjoys the novelty of looking down at Gaston from a height. 

“You better make sure that lazy beast can keep pace,” Gaston snaps.

Belle smiles with badly feigned sweetness. “Don’t worry about us, Gaston. We’ll keep up.”

She watches as he hops in the carriage, where Verna and Alma are already waiting. She pats Philippe on the neck, hoping he can keep up. She knows he won’t appreciate such a long journey, but she needs at least one ally.

***

The rain, Belle supposes, is payment for her horrible attitude and petty insults. In a moment of rare graciousness, Gaston once again offered to help her into the carriage the last time they stopped. Belle declined, saying she enjoyed the weather. It was a lie, of course. Despite the fact that it’s late summer, the rain is surprisingly chilly and irritatingly steady. She and Philippe are both soaked to the bone and rather worse for the wear.

But even if Belle didn’t mind being enclosed in the carriage with Gaston, it seems that traveling quickly over deeply rutted roads has not agreed with Alma at all. The poor girl is a positively ghastly shade of green and they’ve all been forced to stop several times while she retches at the roadside. However dry the carriage may be, Belle is glad for some distance between herself and Alma.

Belle is so relieved when the inn finally comes into sight. But her hopes are dashed as she takes in its general state of disrepair. Leaving Philippe with one of the guards, she, Verna and Alma follow Gaston inside. The innkeeper’s daughter shows the women to two dismal little rooms which both lack both windows and hearths. Belle smiles at the innkeeper’s daughter, but inwardly her spirits sink. There is no way her riding habit is going to dry tonight.

One of the rooms is slightly larger than the other, with a bed big enough to accommodate two slightly built women. Belle shoos both Alma and Verna into the larger room, informing them she will just fine on her own for one night. Neither of them puts up much of a fight.

Disheartened by her dampness and fatigue, Belle heads back out to the stables to see to Philippe. Propriety should dictate that a groom sees to Philippe, but Belle has little use for propriety. And she would much rather spend her time in Philippe’s company anyway. 

Gaston and their accompaniment of guards are all inside eating and no doubt drinking. Belle isn’t sure if she feels empowered by the apparent lack of concern for her whereabouts, or if it just makes her feel unwanted. Probably a little of both.

Philippe seems considerably happier to see her, at least until she dumps the bucket of oats into his trough. Once he has his food, he seems as uninterested in her as the rest of the traveling party. Frowning, Belle does her best to scrape the water from Philippe’s coat and then dries him with a towel. Philippe looks much improved, but Belle knows she is a disheveled wreck, wet, wrinkled and covered in horse hair. She leans against Philippe, resting her cheek against his side, trying to take strength from him.

She hears the other horses moving anxiously in their stalls, but Philippe seems his usual placid self. Lifting her head, she turns around.

“You look like a drowned kitten.”

Belle frowns at Rumplestiltskin, but it’s a lopsided frown because she’s trying not to smile. It’s been a horrible day and from the look of him, he’s in a horrible mood. But she’s so relieved to see him.

“What are you doing out here alone?” he demands. “It’s one thing to have free rein inside the walls of your father’s castle, but any villain could happen upon you out here.”

She can’t contain her smile at that. “I’d wager that being happened upon by the Dark One is probably about as villainous as it gets.”

Now it’s his turn to frown. “Villainous I may be, but I intend you no harm.”

“Really?” Belle asks skeptically. “From the look of your scowl, it doesn’t appear that you stopped by for a nice chat.” 

Belle takes in his attire. It’s very similar to what he was wearing the first time they met in that cold, dark field. He wears his horrible dragonscale coat. Underneath, is the same scaled waistcoat. The shirt beneath it is open, displaying a large swath of his neck and chest. She feels like that should seem more intimate, more approachable, and yet it’s not. The way he wears it, it’s as if he’s announcing his lack of humanity. The pants, at least, are the same black leather he seems to favor in her company, but the boots are complicated affairs that lace nearly to the middle of his thighs. He was not intending to see her today, she knows that much for certain. These clothes are not for her. He’s been dealing.

“What are you doing out here?” he demands.

“Tending to Philippe,” she says, turning back to the horse, giving him one last pat and closing his stall door.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Rumplestiltskin says crossly.

“Traveling,” Belle says. “To King Midas’s court. He’s requested my presence. He wants my advice on how to rid his lands of ogres.”

Rumplestiltskin snorts.

Belle watches him. He is undoubtedly irritated, though she suspect his mood is not so dark that she can’t charm him out of it. He seems rather unconcerned with her visit to Midas’s kingdom and she’s not at all certain what to think about that. Does he not care if she discusses the details of their deal? Or more pressing on her mind, does he not know that she intends to pretend to try and find a husband? 

Oh, why must he always be so vexingly secretive? She can usually ferret out his motives, but she does tire of constantly having to work at it.

She walks to him, stopping less than an arm’s length away. “I tried to wait for you, but you were away and I didn’t know how to contact you.”

“You didn’t try calling me,” he says petulantly.

“Calling?” she asks. “What do you mean?”

“My name,” he says dryly. “You need merely call it.”

Her brow furrows. “That would work? Someone needs merely call your name?”

“Not someone, sweetheart,” he says pointedly. “ _You_.”

She smiles softly at him.

“You smell like a wet horse,” he complains with a frown.

“Yes,” she says, refusing to be baited. “It’s the downside of spending the entire day with a wet horse.”

He looks at her and she knows he wants to be petty and childish, but he sighs and then lifts his hands, wiggling his fingers in a complicated pattern. She feels his magics around her, swirling like a gust of biting wind. When the magic recedes, she is warm and dry and her riding habit looks good as new. Giddily, she wiggles her toes inside her now dry stockings and boots.

“Oh, thank you,” she says, automatically rising on her toes and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He pulls her close, holding her against himself. Grabbing her chin in one hand, he forces her to look at him. “You need merely call my name if you ever need me.”

She nods, blushing.

He releases her, but she doesn’t go far, taking a single step back. She watches as he fishes a key out of his waistcoat pocket. “Use this,” he says, “when you go to your room.”

She frowns. “I already have a key to my room.”

“Trust me,” he says. “Just use this key.”

She nods, not understanding at all. Seemingly satisfied that she will follow his instructions, Rumplestiltskin turns and walks toward the stable door, disappearing in a cloud of smoke before he reaches the opening.

Belle gives Philippe one final look before she returns to the inn. She was right about the drinking. Gaston and the soldiers are loud, bordering on raucous, and she immediately heads for her room. She stops at the door to Verna and Alma’s room, and listens. She hears nothing inside and assumes they have fallen into an exhausted slumber, just as she longs to do. At her door, Belle pulls out the key Rumplestiltskin gave her, inserts it in the lock and pushes open the door.

Belle blinks at the beautiful room. There is an enormous four poster bed mounded high with pillows and hung with beautiful cream colored draperies. The floors are covered in sumptuous carpets in rose and beige. There is an inviting fire in the fireplace. The enormous windows are open and Belle can see the moon over the mountaintops. Absently, she pushes the door closed behind herself and walks to the windows. 

There is no rain here and the moon is nearly full, bathing the entire vista in pale light. She is high in the mountains and there are dense pine trees in every direction. In what must be formal gardens, all bounded by a high stone wall, she can see several small ponds and a hedge maze. She is at least on the second, if not third floor of the building, which most certainly has to be a castle.

“I thought you might prefer this to that dank little room.”

She turns, smiling at Rumplestiltskin in wonder. “Where are we?”

“My home,” he says quietly.

She cocks her head to the side, studying him. He just walked in through the same door she used to enter, but behind him she does not see the downtrodden little inn, merely one of the castle’s candlelit hallways.

“You spirited me away to your lair?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

He purses his lips together. “I didn’t spirit you away anywhere. I gave you a key and a choice. I’d say your virtue is far safer here than in that shabby little inn with that pack of drunkards.”

She can’t help smiling at him. She knows it violates all notions of the Dark One, that she should be safer in his company than in the company of her father’s guards. But she also knows it is true that she is better off here. Well, mostly true. She’s not at all convinced that her virtue is any safer in Rumplestiltskin’s company. She is certain that her consent to any activities that could impinge upon her virtue would be much more readily given to him.

“What?” he asks uncomfortably.

She shakes her head. “Thank you,” she says. “I much prefer this.”

He nods, seemingly relieved.

She looks around the room again, taking in the comfy chairs and multitude of lamps. There are a half dozen book cases against the walls, all chocked full of tomes. “You did all this for me?” she asks quietly.

He looks away, sheepish. “I merely spruced it up a bit,” he says. “The castle’s former owners did most of it.”

She nods, not believing him for a moment. She would wager that every item in this room is less than a year old, probably less than a day - or an hour. “Well, thank you nonetheless,” she says.

Nodding, he turns to leave. He stops at the door. “To return, you need only close the door and insert the key. You will find yourself back in that horrid little inn.”

“And if I don’t use the key?” she asks.

He shrugs. “You will find yourself in the hallway.”

“The hallway of your home,” she says.

He doesn’t look at her. “Yes. And in the future, this key will work in any door. The same rules always apply. To return from whence you came, you need merely insert the key into the lock.”

“Thank you.”

He gives her a final nod and leaves, closing the door behind himself. Belle isn’t at all certain what to make of this, him giving her a literal key to his home. But he’s right. She does vastly prefer these accommodations to the damp, windowless room in that inn. She wonders how far they are from the inn. A week’s journey? A month’s? The little key is potent magic and he offered it to her so lightly and seemingly without strings attached. Though she supposes her presence in his home is its own type of payment - at least from his perspective.

She thinks back to their day in the meadow, when he offered to take her away from her father’s home. Is this what he had in mind? Has he been planning this, just waiting for the right opportunity? She suspects he probably has, though she’s not sure what his ultimate intentions are. She doubts he knows either. She suspects that despite all his practice with complicated deals, when it comes to her, he plays considerably faster and looser, almost too afraid to contemplate his next step. Edda displayed profound insight when she called him a coward.

Belle sighs. No, Rumplestiltskin certainly is no Prince Charming. But she is rather fond of him and his clumsy displays of affection regardless.

She looks around the room. As much as she would love to explore the room and the castle at large, she is simply too exhausted. She is all too happy to undress and slip beneath the sheets.

***  
END CHAPTER


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle arrives in Midas's kingdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Luthien and suallenparker for looking over this chapter and providing invaluable feedback.

When Belle wakes, the sun has already risen. She sits bolt upright in bed. _Dammit!_ She could sleep for hours more, but she has to get back before Verna and Alma come looking for her. She has no desire to explain her accommodations to anyone.

There is a pitcher of water and a basin, though Belle hardly needs to scrub herself. Rumplestiltskin’s magic in the stables the previous night apparently cleaned more than just her dress. Refreshed by the water, she quickly dons her riding habit and carefully cracks open the door. The inn’s gloomy little hallway is dark and quiet. She tiptoes out into the hall, careful to remove the key and tuck it into her boot.

She stops at Verna and Alma’s door and listens. She hears them speaking and knows they will up and about momentarily. Any thoughts of hurrying back to Rumplestiltskin’s castle and poking around are dashed. She simply doesn’t have time and she can’t risk anyone discovering her secret. Frowning, she heads for the stairs.

The public room downstairs is considerably more active. Gaston and most of the soldiers are there, looking rather worse for the wear, nursing cups of overly strong tea and tucking into plates of sausages and potatoes. Belle is rather repulsed and makes a face as she heads out to the stables.

Here, the sun has barely cleared the horizon. Wherever Rumplestiltskin’s castle is, it is not close at hand. She looks at the stable door, taking note of the keyhole. He did say it would work in any door. 

She frowns and kicks impotently at the soggy ground. There is no time to go back to Rumplestiltskin’s castle, no matter how much she would love to look around. The thought of being able to see him in his home nearly makes her fingers itch to use the key. All of her nurses and more than a few of her governesses told her that she was far too curious for her own good and Belle has little trouble believing them.

***

The rest of the trip to Midas’s lands is disappointingly uneventful for Belle. The rain, thankfully, disperses and does not plague them again. Alma forgoes the carriage and rides behind Belle on Philippe. Belle knows it must be terribly uncomfortable for the girl, but she doesn’t complain and they don’t have to stop for her to retch. However, the close company also means that Belle has little opportunity to get lost in her thoughts of Rumplestiltskin’s gift and what it might really mean.

As much as Belle longs to visit her room in the Dark Castle, there isn’t another opportunity on their travels. The next two nights they make camp in the forest with Belle, Verna and Alma all sharing a tent. The night after that, it’s another inn, this one far nicer than the first, with a fine room more than large enough to accommodate all three women. After that, it’s another night of camping in the woods and then by midday the next day, they have arrived in Midas’s kingdom. 

Rumplestiltskin hasn’t checked in on her again and Belle is a little miffed at that. But, she supposes, it wouldn’t improve the moods of her traveling companions if the Dark One was lurking about.

Belle is astounded as they reach Midas’s castle. Belle has visited King Stefan’s castle with her father more than once, but those memories pale in comparison to the grandeur of Midas’s castle. Midas’s seat of power is enormous, far larger than any castle she has ever seen, and it is absolutely teeming with activity. The kingdom’s prosperity is evident everywhere. 

“Oh, Miss,” Alma says, eyes wide as she clutches Belle tighter. “It’s like a fairy story. Everything shines like gold.”

“It’s because it is gold,” Belle says, awed herself.

***

“Is all this commotion because of the masquerade?” Belle asks Gaston as he leads her through the halls of Midas’s castle, Verna and Alma trailing in their wake.

Gaston nods sharply. “It is never quiet in Midas’s castle,” he says, “but yes, many people have traveled far to attend the masquerade. It’s still three nights hence, so the chaos will only get worse.”

Belle studies their surroundings as Gaston leads them through the labyrinthine corridors. The opulence of Midas’s castle borders on garish. There are unmistakable signs of wealth everywhere. So much gold and yet Midas requested _her_ presence? 

“Ah, Mrs. Potts,” Gaston says, hailing an older woman with a cherubic face whom Belle assumes must be part of the castle’s staff. “This is the Lady Belle and her two companions, Verna and Alma. Can you please see that they are settled into their rooms.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Potts says cheerily. “Follow me, dears.”

The suite of rooms is lovely, though thankfully, not the most luxurious in the castle. There is a central sitting room with a large fireplace and two windows overlooking the castle’s courtyard. Off the sitting room, there are two bedrooms. Mrs. Potts leads Belle to the larger of the two rooms and then shows Verna and Alma to the smaller room.

Belle picks up a gilded mirror from its spot on the small vanity in the corner of her room, studying it intently. She understands that gold is both Midas’s talent and his power, but it is odd that the metal is so terribly pervasive. She wonders if it is all Midas’s own doing. How strange it would seem to see a king touching mirrors and tea trays and door handles all to impress throngs of strangers. Belle frowns. She truly can’t imagine the king scrambling up to the castle’s ramparts to turn the roof to gold either. Perhaps the king transforms large objects to gold and then craftsmen fashion all the smaller, mundane objects. Either way, it seems like a colossal waste of effort and not a bit of it practical.

Rumplestiltskin also has a talent for making gold and Belle can’t recall having seen anything gilded in her bedroom in his castle. Point of fact, she remembers very little aside from the books. She frowns, pondering. Perhaps it’s not that Rumplestiltskin is more subtle than Midas when it comes to making a first impression, just that he’s better at it. That’s not a terribly comforting thought.

“Unimpressed with Midas’s parlor tricks already? You could be in for a very disappointing visit.”

Belle turns and frowns at Rumplestiltskin, setting the mirror down carefully. “If Verna and Alma catch you in here, we could all be in for a very disappointing visit.”

He smiles tightly. “The housekeeper took off with them,” he says. “I suspect I’m safe from their blood curdling screams and useless defense of your honor for a little while at least.”

She narrows her eyes at him and steps closer. “Why are you here?’ she asks curiously. “Checking up on me?”

He feigns affront, eyes and mouth open wide. “Why, my lady, I am here for the same reason everyone else is here.”

One of her eyebrows arches in shock. “You’re trying to find a husband too?”

He frowns sharply. “No I’m not trying to find - “ He stops, eyes narrowing. He cants his head to the side. “What did you say?”

She giggles and reaches out, putting her hand on his arm as she pushes herself up on tiptoe, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. “I was only teasing.”

His arms close around her and he lowers his head, his eyes boring into her own. “What did you say?” he asks again, his tone deadly serious.

Belle swallows thickly, easily understanding how big of a mistake she just made. He didn’t know about the other reason for her trip. _Dammit._

She sighs and wilts, trying to pull out of his embrace, but he holds her close. Biting down on her bottom lip, she lifts her hand, toying nervously with the top button of his waistcoat. “Gaston said - “

“Gaston can’t have you,” he bites out, his grip tightening. “Your engagement has been broken.”

“I know,” she snaps, rather shocked at how quickly her own temper rises to the challenge. She plants both palms against his chest and pushes. This time, he relents, releasing her. From the hard set of his jaw, she knows it is not surrender.

She smooths down the front of her riding habit, glaring at him. She frowns. She really needs to change her clothes. She probably still smells like Philippe.

Taking a deep breath, she says, “Gaston spoke very bluntly when he came to extend Midas’s invitation.” She presses her lips together tightly. “He said things that were not easy to hear, things about my duty to the people of my village.”

Rumplestiltskin sneers. “Oh, the same people who castigate you for giving yourself to a demon to save their lives? Those villagers?”

She flushes, her gaze dropping to the ground.

He steps closer and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “You said you were going to leave there. You said you couldn’t stay.”

She looks up at him, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “That’s what I thought,” she says and then sighs. “But now - “

“Now what?” he demands. “What has changed? Those sanctimonious villagers are no more welcoming of your choices now than they were seven weeks ago when we bartered our deal.”

“No they aren’t,” she says, meeting his gaze. “But that doesn’t absolve me of my responsibilities. My father is not a young man. He has no living sons. The next in line to inherit is a distant cousin who is both a wastrel and a drunkard. Leaving the village in his hands would be disaster for all. It is up to me to provide a future for the village.”

Rumplestiltskin nearly growls, baring his stained teeth in frustration. “And that future now includes finding a husband?”

She looks at the floor, frowning. Slowly, she lifts her gaze, glancing at him for just a moment before once again looking at the floor. She clears her throat and she knows her cheeks burn with a blush. “You don’t need to worry,” she says as calmly as she can manage. “You have my word that I will do nothing to compromise the integrity of our deal, regardless of my responsibilities to the village.”

“Oh, you’ll fuck me first and that makes everything alright,” he snaps.

Her head shoots up, her eyes wide with shock at his crass words. Her mouth opens, but she is flustered beyond the capacity to speak.

He steps closer, a nasty sneer on his face. “Good luck husband hunting,” he bites out. “Even your,” his gaze rakes down her body, “ _ample_ assets may not be enough enticement for a man to want a demon’s leftovers.”

She gapes at him and her hand itches to slap him as she did Gaston, but somehow she thinks better of it. Some part of her realizes that she is not the only one whose emotions have gotten the better of her. Rumplestiltskin simmers with barely contained rage and while the man who has awkwardly courted her for weeks would never do her harm, she isn’t so certain about the mad imp with his frightening power.

She takes a step back from him and bends over, tearing at her boot. It seems to take forever, but she finally has the key in her hand. He’s still standing there, scowling at her as she throws the key at him. 

The key hits him in the center of the chest and without looking, he closes his hand around it. He is still glaring at her as he fades into a haze of smoke.

***

Belle is still badly shaken from her argument with Rumplestiltskin when Verna and Alma return, but with their help, she freshens up and changes out of her riding habit and into a dress. She studies herself in the mirror, frowning. It is highly unlikely she’s going to catch a husband in this outfit. The dress, while perfectly serviceable, is not at all impressive. And especially in the grandeur of Midas’s castle, she’s beginning to feel like a churchmouse. 

Belle is a lady and her lands, at least before the ogres, were prosperous. She has many fine clothes, but she’s been to court rarely and never to one as fine as Midas’s. Her gown, a deep maroon velvet, is nice and well made, but it certainly hasn’t been helped by being packed away for the journey. 

Given her advanced age and her agreement with Rumplestiltskin, Belle knows she’s going to have to rely on displays of wealth to attract any potential husbands. Before this afternoon, she’d been planning on playing along with the ruse without investing any real effort. However, in light of Rumplestiltskin’s cruel words, she finds the endeavor more … _appealing_ certainly isn’t the right word. She is no more eager to find a husband now than she was before she started her journey. But she is still so angry about Rumplestiltskin’s sneering words, his crude assessment of her charms. She wants to attract a man merely to show the imp that she can.

Leftovers indeed.

Provoking Rumplestiltskin’s jealousy is petty and ridiculous and given his mercurial and possessive nature, probably a fabulously terrible idea. But there it is.

Her dresses, however, may well sink her plans before she even begins. She can’t go about looking like someone’s poor relation. She needs to speak with Midas about compensation for her counsel.

***

“Oh pardon me, did my carriage splash you?”

Belle glances up as the woman alights from her carriage. “Oh, no,” she says, shaking her head. “No I’m fine, thank you.”

The woman smiles and Belle is struck by her beauty and self-possession. Even in the splendor of Midas’s courtyard, this woman has no trouble commanding attention. She is dressed from head to toe in black. Black satin, black leather, black silk. She wears a long coat which resembles a skirt, but underneath, her legs are encased in tight, black leather. Despite the fact that she is not a short woman, she wears a pair of impossibly high black boots which cause her to tower over Belle. The woman’s outfit is bold and daring and she has absolutely no problem wearing it well. Belle stands there, smiling awkwardly as the woman approaches her. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the woman says, extending her hand. “I am Regina. And you are?”

“Uh - “ Belle says, bewildered. There is something about this woman, something that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Belle had gone in search of an audience with King Midas only to be informed it would be evening before he could speak with her. Disheartened, she headed to the courtyard for some fresh air just in time to see Regina’s beautiful black lacquered carriage arrive.

“Your Majesty,” Gaston says, bowing to Regina.

Belle has no idea where Gaston came from, but she’s ever so grateful. “Oh, forgive me, your majesty,” she says, curtsying before Regina. “I didn’t realize you were royalty.”

“Yes,” Regina says tightly, giving Gaston a hard, cold smile before turning her attention back to Belle. “And you didn’t tell me your name.”

“May I present the Lady Belle,” Gaston says.

Belle smiles at Gaston, but it’s really nothing more than a baring of teeth. “Thank you, Gaston,” she says tightly.

Regina’s eyes go wide and she smiles rather the way Belle thinks cats smile at mice. “The Lady Belle,” Regina says. “I am so glad for the opportunity to meet you. I had hoped our paths would cross.”

Belle blushes. “I can’t imagine what I could have done to garner the attention of a queen, but thank you, your majesty.”

“Oh, you’ve done much,” Regina says with another poison smile. “You’ve done something I thought was impossible.”

Belle swallows thickly. “Ma’am?”

Regina steps forward and puts an arm around Belle, forcing her to walk with her toward the gardens. “Walk with me,” she says. “We have much to discuss.”

***

The walk through Midas’s gardens with Queen Regina is a blur for Belle. When they return to the castle, she finds it difficult to latch on to distinct memories. It all seems rather hazy. She does remember Regina’s offer of gowns. Belle tried to rebuff the offer, but Regina was persistent. Though Belle did manage to negotiate a single gown, rather than an entire wardrobe.

Belle truly has no idea why she agreed to the loan of a gown. The Queen must be a head taller than Belle. Though, she supposes, the Queen probably didn’t intend to give Belle one of her own gowns. Perhaps she has a lady in waiting of less than impressive stature with suitably fancy clothes.

But still, Belle doesn’t argue as the Queen’s maids leads her to the Queen’s suite of rooms. Before Belle knows what is happening, a stunning gown of the deepest indigo silk is wrapped around her body. The dress is unlike any she has ever worn, far more suited to the Queen’s bold and unconventional style than Belle’s own preferences. To her eternal shock, the dress fits like a glove, hugging her curves. The drop sleeves leave her shoulders and a large expanse of her decolletage bare. The gown is ruched, emphasizing her tiny waist and the feminine flare of her hips and roundness of her bottom. The skirt hugs her legs, with a high slit that reaches nearly to the middle of her left thigh.

Belle stares at herself in the mirror, stunned.

“It’s beautiful, Miss,” Verna says, eyes wide.

Belle swallows thickly. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

“Too much?” Verna asks, her look implying that if anything, it is too little - material that is. She shrugs. “You are trying to catch a man.” 

Belle frowns. Well, at least she has a suitable dress for dinner now. And after dinner, she can speak with Midas about a more permanent solution to her lack of gowns.

And then maybe she can eat, because she certainly can’t take a bite in this dress.

***

Belle is both relieved and irritated to find herself seated next to Gaston at dinner. She certainly has no desire to impress or catch him. But at the same time, his presence is familiar. She glances at Midas, seated at the head of the table, at least forty guests from her. She hopes her place seating isn’t an indication of where she ranks in Midas’s priorities. She needs to speak with him soon.

Belle studies the table. It is a truly astounding work of engineering. The table forms a giant V that takes up most of Midas’s truly great Great Hall. It can probably seat 200 guests with Midas taking the seat of honor at the point of the V. The place settings are gold, of course. Gold plates, gold tableware. Belle studies them, but since the absolutely constricting fit of the dress prohibits actually consuming anything, she doesn’t touch the place setting.

At Belle’s left is seated Sir Graham, a member of Queen Regina’s court. He has a certain kind of rugged handsomeness that Belle finds appealing. But truly, it is his quiet and withdrawn manner she finds most attractive. He seems every bit as uncomfortable as she and she takes that as a good sign.

She is just getting ready to try and engage Sir Graham in conversation when she stops mid-word, mouth open. At the far end of the absolutely enormous banquet table, near Midas, she watches as Rumplestiltskin takes a seat across from Queen Regina. Belle blinks, closing her mouth. He did say that he was here for the same reason as everyone else. Does Rumplestiltskin really mean to attend King Midas’s masquerade?

Belle glances around, gauging the reaction of the other guests. While some look decidedly uncomfortable, none of them seem particularly shocked at Rumplestiltskin’s appearance. Is this a regular occurrence for him? Somehow she never imagined him attending court - anyone’s court. Yet he must if his presence engenders nothing more than mild unease among the peers of the realm.

She continues to watch, mindless of her food and her dinner companions. Rumplestiltskin is undoubtedly aware of her presence, but he doesn’t so much as glance in her direction. _Coward._ Edda was right about him.

As Belle watches, Queen Regina smiles broadly, leaning forward towards Rumplestiltskin, talking easily with him. Belle has to blink at that. She never imagined anyone - except perhaps herself - speaking so easily with Rumplestiltskin. She is aware of a discomfiting, possessive feeling as she watches Regina … well, it doesn’t precisely look like _flirting_. Baiting, perhaps? Yes. Baiting. As she watches Regina bait Rumplestiltskin, toying with him.

Belle doesn’t even try to pretend to eat, which is just as well in this dress. And she abandons all attempts at making conversation with her dinner companions. Regina glances in her direction several times and Belle forces a smile, but Rumplestiltskin consummately avoids her. She wonders if he’s still mad. His bearing is a study in practiced boredom, but Belle knows he’s not so calm beneath the surface.

***  
End Chapter


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Luthien for the beta read!
> 
> And many thanks to anyone who is still reading this story for your infinite patience.

“What do you mean it’s going to be tomorrow?” Belle demands of Gaston.

He frowns. “Something came up,” he says. “Midas is very regretful, but he is otherwise engaged this evening. He promises that tomorrow he will have time. He is eager to speak with you.”

Belle scowls, seriously doubting Midas’s eagerness. Without another word to Gaston, she turns on her heel, heading back down the corridor, feeling completely out of sorts. This is ridiculous. She doesn’t know why this is so upsetting to her. She’s been to court before and despite the fact that King Stefan’s court was nowhere near as grand as Midas’s court, she still knows that royalty’s priorities are constantly reordered. Having to wait for an audience with the king is hardly a new concept.

Of course, Midas isn’t really the problem and she knows that. She’s still very upset from her argument with Rumplestiltskin and smarting from his total lack of interest in her at dinner. She has no trouble understanding how Queen Regina can command attention, but after everything Belle shared with Rumplestiltskin, she didn’t expect to be cast aside in favor of her majesty. Especially not in this dress. And Belle’s intentions of making Rumplestiltskin jealous were completely fruitless. She has no idea if any of the men at the dinner paid her any attention at all, much less enough to provoke a response out of Rumplestiltskin. She was too busy being irritated at him, and jealous herself, to notice. Clearly, she is not destined to be a success in romantic intrigues. That is probably just as well.

Lost in her dark thoughts, Belle nearly runs into Sir Graham in one of the castle’s large central halls. With a few muttered apologies and a self-deprecating laugh, she tries to save face. They chat rather awkwardly for several minutes and somehow it manages not to be too painful for either of them. Belle gets the feeling that Sir Graham would rather be alone in the woods than at court. Right now, she shares the sentiment and considers it the mark of his good character. She only wishes she could run away too.

Standing near a large balcony, she and Sir Graham watch as porters and guests rush down the corridors and up the stairs, in a constant whirl of activity. Belle finds it rather overwhelming to contemplate the magnitude of this masquerade. It seems like half the realm must be in attendance. The realization makes her feel even more insignificant.

Despite Sir Graham’s pleasing face and generally amenable disposition, Belle is really in no mood for company. Bidding him a good evening, Belle retreats to her rooms, hoping to lick her wounds in private. Thankfully Verna and Alma are nowhere to be found. Belle knows they are failing in their roles as lady’s maids, but she is so grateful for the solitude. Plus, they deserve to have some fun of their own. It is unlikely they will ever get another chance like this.

Belle sighs and contemplates one of the chairs before the fire. As dinner proved, she really cannot sit comfortably in this gown. And she can’t extricate herself without assistance, so she’s pretty much left just standing in the middle of the room, brooding and sulking. 

Rumplestiltskin didn’t so much as glance at her. Not once! She understands they fought, but after all the tender moments they’ve shared over the last several weeks, the teasing, the talking, the kisses and camaraderie, she expected so much more. What, exactly, she expected, she isn’t certain. But certainly more than to be summarily ignored like he was one of the most powerful men in the realm and she was nothing more than minor nobility with neither age nor wealth in her favor.

She frowns, willing her bottom lip not to tremble. That’s _exactly_ who Rumplestiltskin and she are, despite what has transpired in their private moments. Clearly, he was at ease tonight, perhaps not completely welcome, but certainly not _un_ welcome. Even Midas, with all his wealth, would not dare court the ire of the Dark One. No one at the dinner thought it odd that Rumplestiltskin claimed a place of such high rank at the table, or that he spoke so cavalierly with Queen Regina. Meanwhile, Belle was relegated to the far end of the table with Gaston and Graham. She wonders, for a moment, if she is so unimportant a guest that her seat was chosen alphabetically. In a moment particularly rich with self-pity, she thinks it’s a wonder that she wasn’t forced to eat in the kitchens with the other churchmice and spinsters. 

Belle rolls her eyes at her own maudlin thoughts. She knows they didn’t stick the spinsters in the kitchens. No, the spinsters, the _companions_ , as always, were at the dinner, seated close to their sparkling young wards, protecting their priceless virtue like an army of guard dogs in high necked wool gowns and stodgy lace caps. Belle is well aware that she shares far more in common with the steadfast and stoic companions than with the tittering, twinkling young maidens in attendance for Midas’s masquerade. Her presence here seems more farcical than ever.

“I wouldn’t set your cap for Sir Graham just yet. He’s still in the business of servicing her Majesty.”

Belle turns and frowns at Rumplestiltskin. His simmering rage appears to be gone, but he still looks sour and unsettled. Good. She’d hate to be the only one. “Servicing?” she asks.

“Fucking,” he says bluntly, taking several steps toward her, his hands clasped behind his back. “Ever since she took his heart.”

Belle flinches at both the word and his tone. Not to mention the revelation about Sir Graham’s private life. Yet more disillusionment and brutal reality. She’s about had her fill for the day. “You mean he’s in love with Queen Regina?”

Rumplestiltskin smiles a nasty, condescending smile. “No. I mean she’s a talented and powerful witch and she quite literally ripped his heart out of his chest.” He smiles again, giving those words a moment to sink in. “And while she holds his heart captive, she can compel him to do anything. For the last several years, that includes regularly fucking her.” He frowns. “Nasty business, that. Using a compulsion to sexually exploit someone. Even I wouldn’t stoop to such tactics.”

Belle stares at him for a moment, dumbfounded. The queen is using a compulsion to force Sir Graham into her bed. Despite his protestations, Belle wonders if her own arrangement with Rumplestiltskin really so different. Is she no more important or precious to him than Sir Graham is to Regina? Like Regina, is Rumplestiltskin merely using Belle to amuse himself, to pass the time? Is this what someone of Rumplestiltskin and Regina’s political and literal power does for diversion?

Suddenly, it’s too much. All of this is too much. Too much opulence. Too much artifice. Too many jaded hearts and cruel words. It’s all so very sophisticated and horrible and she feels so completely out of her depth and far too provincial for any of it.

The sob escapes her lips before she can stop it and she immediately claps her hand over her mouth, stemming the sound. She stands there, eyes screwed shut, mindless of the tears that stream down her face.

She’s dimly aware of his approach, his timid touches to her arms, her hair. He finally makes a frustrated sound and pulls her against his chest, awkwardly patting her back and hushing her.

She’s so angry with him, she’s tempted to shrug off his touch. But she’s also desperate for something familiar, something comforting - and for better or for worse, that’s him. She wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him, crying like a foolish girl - which, she supposes, she is, age be damned. 

Her sobs eventually subside, but she stays where she is, her cheek pressed to the center of his chest. Despite the tears, she feels better, less maudlin, less consumed with self-pity. In her heart, she knows the moments she has shared with Rumplestiltskin weren’t part of some game. He undoubtedly toys with people, but she knows he doesn’t employ seduction. He’s a lonely monster. Whatever it is he gets out of their arrangement, she doubts it’s amusement.

“I didn’t realize you were so fond of Sir Graham,” he says.

She gives him points for not sounding completely petulant, but she pushes herself back out of his embrace, meeting his gaze incredulously. “I don’t give a damn about Sir Graham,” she says, wiping impatiently at her wet cheeks. “I don’t even know him.”

He seems mollified by that, but his brow is still furrowed. “Then what’s the problem?”

“This!” she yells, gesturing to … everything. “ _This_ is the problem. All of this. All of the gold and servants and people and lies and manipulations.”

He shrugs. “It’s court. What did you expect?”

She glares at him. “You called me leftovers!”

At that, he looks downright sheepish. His gaze drops to the floor and his lips purse together. He traces a small pattern against the floor with the toe of his boot. “I apologize,” he says, glancing at her. “I was angry.” He takes a breath. “I do not intend you any insult.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, looking at him. Part of her wants to cling to her anger, but there hardly seems any point in it. They still have the terms of their deal. And she’s exhausted with the effort of fighting. It is not in her nature to hold a grudge. 

Belle needs an ally in King Midas’s court and Philippe isn’t cutting it. Court is not for the feint of heart and much like Sir Graham, she suspects that Rumplestiltskin would rather be anywhere than mired in the politics of Midas’s courtiers. Not that Rumplestiltskin shuns intrigues. She knows there is little he enjoys more. But he prefers the manipulations on his own terms, in his own time. Under different circumstances, she suspects he wouldn’t spend one second longer than absolutely necessary in this castle. Which means, despite his sour mood and harsh words, he is here because of her.

“I’m hungry,” she says.

He looks at her suspiciously. “We just had dinner.”

“No,” she corrects, “ _you_ just had dinner. I sat at the table while everyone else ate. Have you even looked at this dress?” She motions down the length of her body.

He takes the opportunity to take a very good look, swallowing thickly. “Oh, I noticed,” he assures her, darkly. “In fact, I’m sure every man in that room noticed.”

She frowns. “You didn’t even _look_ at me at dinner.”

“For a reason,” he assures her with a tight, unhappy smile. 

Belle looks at him and knows he speaks the truth. He does not like that she is here, that she wore this dress to the dinner. He certainly did not like her revelation about husband hunting. But he did nothing to try and prevent any of it. While she doesn’t know Rumplestiltskin half as well as she wishes, she does know that he does not allow people to get close to him. He is a solitary creature, that much is plainly evident to everyone. She also knows him well enough to know that it is not in his nature to allow or ignore things that upset him. She supposes that she can’t blame him for ignoring her. Of all his possible reactions, it was probably the most innocuous.

She steps closer to him, watching him carefully. “But do you like it?” she asks quietly. “The dress?”

He looks at her and she can hear his breath catch. Lips pressed tightly together, he nods. Belle watches as his hands ball into fists at his side, as if to keep himself from reaching for her.

But just as Belle feels her own heart start to beat faster in response, his lips purse into a frown and his gaze narrows. He reaches out to touch her, his fingers trailing lightly over the silk covering her arms. Suddenly, with a near growl, he pulls her close, hands fisting in the dark silk. 

She is frozen in his embrace, unable to understand what he has come over him. His claws dig painfully into her hips and he bares his teeth in irritation. He leans down, sniffing along her collarbone and then lower, at her decolletage, at the place where the silk meets her skin.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she asks in a shaky whisper, trying to push at his shoulders, scared by his rapid change in demeanor. She might as well be trying to push at a block of solid stone.

His head snaps up and his gaze narrows at her. “Where did you get this dress?” he demands.

She shakes her head. “Uh … Regina. She lent it to me. I didn’t have anything suitable for the dinner.”

He growls, pulling at the material until Belle hears the seams begin to pop. With a yelp, she stumbles backward out of his embrace, clutching at the tattered dress. He can take certain liberties, but this is bordering on the outrageous. She scurries out of his reach, alarmed.

“ _Belle_ ,” he says, his voice thick with warning. She can tell from the coiled tension in his body that he’s a hair’s breadth from pouncing on her. “Come here.”

She shakes her head, moving so one of the chairs is between them. The logical part of her brain knows that if Rumplestiltskin intends to catch her, the chair will pose no hinderance. But the more animalistic part of her brain can’t help but react to the blatantly predatory scowl on his features.

“Belle,” he says, clearly fighting to remain calm. “The dress. I told you that Regina is a powerful witch. That dress is trouble. We need to get rid of it.”

Belle looks down at the dress, biting down on her bottom lip. Regina. A witch. Belle laughs mirthlessly, hands fisted in the tattered material. Somehow she isn’t at all shocked by his revelation. It seems typical for the day, that something offered in the guise of friendship would turn out to be a nasty trick. This truly is the last straw. 

“Fine,” she says, knowing her voice is tinged with hysteria. She wiggles and tugs, pulling at the material. She hears the remaining seams give way and soon the dress pools at her feet. She stares down at the pile of indigo silk, one arm covering her chest while the other hand tries to cover the secret place between her legs. She isn’t naked. But her daily, sturdy undergarments would not suit under that dress, so she had to make due with other, more delicate items, that do little to protect her modesty.

Rumplestiltskin stands on the other side of the chair, slackjawed and blinking.

Belle is unwilling to contemplate the fact that she’s standing in the middle of the room, mostly naked, before Rumplestiltskin. Boldly, she catches a toe in the material of the ruined dress and kicks it toward him. “The dress,” she says, eyes wide - and most likely, half crazy.

He shakes himself and without taking his eyes off her, picks up the dress and tosses it into the fire. 

Belle watches as the dress disappears in a rancid cloud of roiling greenish-black smoke. She cocks her head to the side, staring at the fire. There is no doubt that whatever magic was contained in that dress, it was malicious. Why, exactly, the queen would have gone out of her way to do something so hateful to someone she only just met is beyond Belle. Point of fact, Belle can’t remember ever having any outright enemies. There is no love lost between her and Gaston to be certain, but she wouldn’t wish harm on even him.

Belle looks at Rumplestiltskin, her brow furrowed. “Why would she do that to me?” she asks quietly.

He frowns, stepping closer, obviously trying to keep his eyes on her face. “As I said earlier, Regina is a talented witch.” He sighs. “She thinks nothing of toying with people for her own pleasure.”

Belle looks at him, studying his features. She doesn’t doubt his assessment of Regina, but she wonders if he is really so different from the queen. She’s seen first hand how he can toy with people when it suits his whims. She has watched him toy with her own father. She wonders just how much his moderate affection for her shields her from his darker nature.

She swallows thickly, shifting uneasily, painfully aware of her state of undress. “So,” she says as conversationally as she can manage, “you seem to know Regina well.”

He nods, taking another step closer, frowning as he looks away. “Yes.”

Belle clears her throat, shifting her weight awkwardly from foot to foot. “How well?”

He meets her gaze, holding it for several heartbeats. “Well enough for her to make a target of you the moment she arrived. You’re probably her primary reason for attending at all.”

“Oh,” Belle says, frowning, confused. He takes another step toward her and she forces herself not to retreat or crumple to the floor in a little ball, curling in on herself to hide her nakedness.

She watches as he licks his lips, his gaze raking down her body. She can hear the quickened pace of his breathing, see the beat of his pulse in his neck. He reaches out for her hips and her breath catches in her throat as he hooks a finger under the waistband of the delicate silk panties she wears. 

He gently urges her closer to him and she complies until she is pressed tightly against his front, his fingers resting lightly on her bare hips. His fingertips skim over the tender places where, earlier, his claws dug into her delicate flesh. The expression on his features is an unsettling mix of remorse and possessive satisfaction. He clears his throat, swallowing harshly. “You said you didn’t want undergarments from me.” 

“Well,” she says, trying for haughty but sounding far too breathless. “It didn’t seem to discourage you from sending them and I h-hate to be wasteful.”

He nods, clearly unconvinced, giving her a lopsided smile. “I thought Edda was making a rag rug.”

Belle frowns. “It was more of a potholder. Not a lot of material.”

“No,” he agrees, shaking his head, “not a lot of material.” His fingers find their way around to cup her bottom, squeezing gently. 

She squeaks, moving her hands to clutch at his shoulders, pressing her bare breasts against his waistcoat. She is so very aware of her nakedness while he is shielded under layers of silk, leather and brocade. She does have the presence of mind to be thankful that he isn’t wearing his dragonskin tonight.

His fingers play over her bottom and then up her back. He growls, more a sound of frustration than lust. 

“What?” she asks.

“That dress,” he says, frowning. “It was a nasty enchantment, though rather clumsily executed. Regina is always style over substance. I suppose we should be grateful for that.”

As Belle stands there, he reaches for her arm and skims his face over the flesh on the inside of her bicep, sniffing at the place where the silk had covered her skin. Tentatively, his tongue darts out, licking against her skin, searching for something. He flinches, making a sour face.

“What?” Belle asks.

Releasing her arm, he looks down at her. “I believe it’s an enchantment to excite the lusts of men,” he says bitterly. Then more quietly he adds, “As if the cut of the dress itself wasn’t sufficient.”

Her brow furrows and she shakes her head in confusion. “Why would Regina want me to excite men’s lusts?”

He frowns, looking away as if ashamed. “To irritate me,” he says quietly. He looks at her, meeting her gaze. “The longer you wore the dress, the more pronounced the effects would have become. And there was probably a trigger.” He looks around the room. “I suspect it was gold. And knowing Regina, she was probably hoping the enchantment would snare Midas.”

“Why Midas?” Belle asks.

“Oh, I doubt she had an agenda. She probably just thought it would cause the most trouble for both you and me,” he says with a frown.

She remains in his embrace, frowning. Mischief indeed. While it sounds like a minor irritation to him, Belle finds it considerably more unsettling. “Will the enchantment go away?’

He nods. “Yes, now that the dress has been destroyed, it will dissipate quickly. By tomorrow morning it will be gone.”

Belle smiles mirthlessly. “No more exciting the lusts of men.”

He frowns. “Oh I didn’t say that,” he says darkly. “It’s just that by tomorrow morning, it will be nothing more than your own considerable appeal at work.”

She can’t help the blush that creeps into her cheeks and she ducks her head to hide a smile. No, Prince Charming he is not. But his compliments are all the more precious for how ardently he means them. Belle has serious doubts about her allure, but she can’t help but be warmed by the fact that he takes it as a given that any man would be as attracted to her as he is himself. 

Suddenly, she frowns as she considers his wording. She looks up, meeting his gaze. “So, Regina’s enchantment wasn’t intended for you then?”

“I’m not a man,” he says bluntly. “And I hardly require an enchantment to lust after you. Even Regina could guess that.” He looks at her, his expression so full of longing and Belle finds herself swaying toward him, her head angled up toward his.

 

Abruptly, he pulls away, frowning. “Not here,” he says. “Those girls will be back any minute and gods only know what spies might be lurking about.” With a murmured word and a flick of his wrists, she finds herself draped in a dressing gown of the softest black velvet. 

He holds out his hand and Belle takes it, allowing him to lead her into her bedroom. He closes the door behind them and Belle watches as he takes the key she threw at him earlier and inserts it into the lock.

In mere moments she once again finds herself in her room in the Dark Castle, alone with Rumplestiltskin, wearing only a dressing gown. He turns and pushes the door shut, setting the key on one of the bookshelves.

He turns back to face her and they both look at each other for an awkward moment. Steeling herself, Belle closes the distance between them and gently leans into him, earning herself a soft smile. He half-frowns, catching a lock of her hair between his fingers. “You’re too good to me,” he says quietly, not meeting her gaze. “After what I said to you earlier.”

She takes a deep breath, looking at him intently. She doesn’t have to be the most powerful magician in the realm to figure out that he doesn’t like sharing her company with anyone. From the very beginning of their agreement, he has only ever visited her when she is alone. Regardless of what his own intentions may be toward her, he clearly does not want to share. Under any circumstances. 

She now knows that his seeming aloofness to her announcement that she was going to visit Midas’s kingdom was feigned. That was probably as close as he was capable of approving of her decision. While he doesn’t try and blatantly bend her to his will the way her father or Gaston have done, he’s not at all above being pouty and petulant and generally unpleasant.

She supposes it’s not fair to judge Rumplestiltskin by the same measure as an ordinary man. There’s absolutely nothing ordinary about him. And considering his ferocious power, he could do far worse than make a few nasty comments at her expense. But still, she will no more stand for this behavior from him than she did Gaston’s heavy handedness.

“I accept your apology,” she says seriously. “But do not do it again.”

He finally meets her gaze and she stares at him, making sure he knows she’s serious. He finally presses his lips together and gives her a small nod.

With that finally done, she sighs, slumping against him. She presses her nose against his neck - or as much as she can with that damn collar in the way. “I missed you,” she says, her voice muffled.

He wraps his arms around her holding her tight. “You were supposed to use the key,” he says, petulant again.

She smiles, despite herself. Pulling back, she looks up at him. “Sadly, there are no locks in tents and I really didn’t want to bring Verna and Alma along with me when we stayed in another inn.”

He frowns. “No,” he says, “I wouldn’t want them here either.”

She can’t help the warm feeling she gets from those words. Not that she ever suspected he would want Verna and Alma in his home, but hearing his implication that only she is welcome still gives her a little thrill.

“You said you’re hungry,” he says, pulling her from her thoughts. He motions with his hand and she turns around to see a table laden with food in the middle of her room.

She laughs, turning to look at him. “I’m not sure I’m quite that hungry.”

He shrugs shyly. “I didn’t know what you would like.”

She smiles, but hurries to one of the comfy chairs set at the table. She is indeed starving, especially since they’ve smoothed out their differences enough that her nerves are no longer in the way.

He joins her at the table, sipping a glass of something, wine, she thinks, while she tucks into the delicious food. There are fresh fruits and nuts, roasted game, delicate pastries - both savory and sweet. She gives more than a passing thought to the wisdom of eating magically conjured food, but is not bothered enough to actually stop. She assumes there is no Turkish Delight or equally addictive treat hidden amongst Rumplestiltskin’s offerings. Compulsions are covered - and expressly forbidden - in their contract, after all.

After some time, Belle finally leans back in her chair sighing and contented. “Oh, that was lovely.”

He smiles. “I’m glad you approve.” He pushes himself to his feet and moves toward her chair. “And, now, I should see you back to Midas’s castle.”

She frowns, reaching for his hand, gently touching her fingertips to his. “I thought … _we_ … might stay a while here.” She looks up at him through her lashes.

He groans, a sound halfway between frustration and grief, looking wryly at the bed. He takes a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest. After some time, he finally looks down at her again. “As truly tempting as it would be to spend time with you tonight - “

“The deal forbids it,” she finishes with a frown. He’s not the only one who can be petulant when the mood strikes.

He smiles tightly at her, his expression depressingly sober. “Actually, the timeframe of the deal is the least of my concerns at the moment,” he says. “It is simply that the deal itself needs to remain intact, especially now.”

She pushes her head back against the cushion, looking at him with a furrowed brow. “Why?”

He looks down at her and for a moment she’s concerned he’s not going to answer, but he finally says, “As long as you are bound to me through our deal, there are certain … _protections_ that severely limit what someone can do to you through magic.”

Belle arches an eyebrow. “Someone like Regina.”

“Someone exactly like Regina,” he confirms. “It’s why she had to resort to that ridiculous dress. Her prefered methods are unavailable.”

A thought occurs to Belle and she blushes. “Does Regina know the terms of our deal?”

He nods. “The broad terms, yes. It is not a difficult thing to discern, especially for one as powerful as Regina. The specifics are considerably harder to tease out.” He frowns. “As well as being none of her business.”

Belle looks up at him from beneath her lashes. “But the deal can only be fulfilled through one act, which does not preclude many others.”

He groans, screwing his eyes shut. “Best not to tempt fate, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “At least not tonight. I am not accustomed to denying myself something I desire so acutely, and especially tonight, I would not put my restraint to the test.”

Part of her thrills at his admission, while another part of her is scared by his blunt assessment. He wants her, to a sobering degree. So much so that he does not trust himself.

He holds out a hand to her. “Come,” he says. “I will see you back.” 

Belle takes his hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She walks at his side as he tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. He stops at the bookcase and picks up the key, inserting it into the lock and opening the door to reveal her bedroom in Midas’s castle. He removes the key from the lock and holds it for a moment before once again handing it to her with a contrite expression. She takes it with a smile, slipping it into the pocket of her robe.

He starts to walk through the doorway and stops, turning to her. “Why did you need to borrow a dress from Regina? Do you not have dresses of your own?”

“I do,” she says with a shrug, “but they are rather …”

He arches his eyebrows in question.

“They are rather plain,” she admits. “And worn.” She sighs. “I feel like a churchmouse.”

“I see,” he says quietly. He smiles. “Well, we can’t have that, now can we?”

She looks at him quizzically, but offers no further explanation. Together, they step across the threshold. Belle turns to watch Rumplestiltskin shut the door. As soon as it closes, she can hear Alma and Verna in the outer room.

He smiles tightly. “It appears you have company.”

“Yes,” she says quietly, giving him an apologetic smile.

He takes a deep breath. “I will see you on the morrow, milady,” he says, bowing with a flourish. 

She can’t help but smile at him, especially as he steps closer and presses a chaste kiss to her forehead. She watches as he disappears in a puff of purple smoke.

Belle turns, sorting through the wardrobe until she finds her nightgown. She shrugs into it and then slips between the covers, hopeful that Verna and Alma will not disturb her tonight. Tomorrow will undoubtedly be another series of challenges and she needs to be well rested if she has any hope of meeting them.

***  
End Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> I have read Bed of Thorns by the phenomenally talented Nym and I have to admit that at this point, the lines between fanon and canon are starting to blur for me. Nothing in this story is intentionally derivative of that work, but just to be on the up and up, I have read it and it’s genius. If you haven’t read it, you should ASAP.


End file.
